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Rolhnd i 
Oliver 


BY 

justin McCarthy, 

Author op “Maid of Athens,” Etc., Etc. 


JiVkqk 3?. I(OYell & Co., Publiglieaty. 

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ROLAND OLIVER 


JC |Ub*l 



justtn McCarthy, m.p. 

>i 

AUTHOB 09 “DBAB DADX DISDAIN,” “a FAIR 8AX05,” “ MAX* W ,1 WIH, 1 * 

HO. 




NEW YORK : 

FRANK F. LOVELL & COMPANY, 

142 and 144 Worth Street. 


Copyright, 1889, 
By John W. Lovelu 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I. 

PA OB 

THE HOUSE IN AGAR STREET . . . . # 7 


CHAPTER IL 

THE OLD FRIEND AND THE NEW . 


20 


CHAPTER III. 

TWO READINGS OF SHAKESPEARE 


m 


D 


. 43 


CHAPTER IV. 

ROSALINE . . . . • 


57 


CHAPTER V. 

THE PET DOVE . . . . t 5 « 72 

CHAPTER VI. 

“HAVE DONE WITH THE HEROICS” • 3 J 87 


6 


CONTENTS 


oo away! . 


roiand’s whim 


GOADING HIM ON 


THE ORDEAL. 


LIFE AND DEATH 


LATER ON • 


CHAPTER VIL 

• . • • ( 

CHAPTER VIII. 


CHAPTER IX. 


CHAPTER X. 

• • . • 

CHAPTER XL 
• • • • 

CHAPTER XII. 

• * • • 


PAGB 
. 110 


. 130 


148 


. 158 


. 178 


. 190 


ROLAND OLIVER 


CHAPTER I. 

THE HOUSE IN AGAR STREET. 

OLAND OLIVER had come back to 
Loudon to settle there. He had made 
up his mind that it was time for him 
to do something ; and he had a feeling that it was 
about time for him to begin to enjoy life. He had 
had a good deal of trouble so far. 

Perhaps it may be as well to explain how he 
came by such an odd conjunction of names as 
Roland Oliver. His father's name was Oliver ; so 
there is no explanation needed about that. But 
his mother was a generous and highly-romantic 
woman, and when her boy was born she resolved 
that he should be called Roland, and thus sent 
forth into the world, published in advance as a 
hero and one of Nature's nobility, by the fact that 
h© bore the names of the two great Paladins — 



8 


BOLAND OLIVER 


Roland and Oliver — who are set off in common 
proverb one against the other. She was always im- 
pressing him with the not unfamiliar truth that life 
is a battle, and that it behoves all true men to quit 
themselves like heroes. Perhaps it need hardly be 
said that she was a devotee of Longfellow. Her 
son, she declared, would never prove unworthy of 
the heroic names he bore ; and she held to it that 
there could be Rolands and Olivers in the most 
commonplace ways of life. The boy used to smile 
sometimes at her enthusiasm, but he liked it all 
the same ; and his mind often went back to those 
dear talks with his mother — went back in tender- 
ness and sorrow, for she died when he was only 
twelve years old. 

Many years had passed since that first grief of 
his life. He was now in his thirtieth year ; he was 
not particularly handsome, but he had an expres- 
sive face and was well set up ; the sort of young 
man whose clothes naturally fit him. He was 
apparently making himself very comfortable in 
London. He had taken a very charming set of 
rooms in one of the streets out of Park Lane, and 
had been at some expense to have them furnished 
and decorated to please himself. He had recon- 
ciled the landlady of the house, a good-natured, 


THE HOUSE IN AGAR STREET 


0 


active body, who had been a lady’s-maid in her 
time, to his theories of domestic art and the implied 
disparagement of her theories, and her chimney- 
ornaments, and her table-covers, by the promise 
that whenever he left the lodgings the property 
should be hers free of all charge. 

He let himself in with his latch-key one evening 
in the spring-time and found his lamp lighted, his 
fire burning cheerily, and the whole place seeming, 
as it were, to be giving him a cordial welcome and 
inviting him to sit down and make himself quite 
at home. A letter on a salver was lying conspi- 
cuously on the table ; he took it up and looked at it 
with hardly half-awakened interest. Perhaps the 
interest began to get a little more than half- 
awakened when he saw that the address was in 
a woman’s handwriting. Of late he had had very 
few acquaintances among women in London. He 
had been away so long ; he had not been home 
long enough to have renewed many of his former 
acquaintanceships. He opened the letter and 
read : 

" You don't know me — perhaps never heard of 
me; but I am the wife of an old school-fellow of 
yours, whom since that time you always called your 
friend — I am told. I am the wife of Laurence 


10 


ROLAND OLIVER 


Caledon. He is very sick, and we are miserably 
poor — only because be is siok and can do nothiug. 
Will you come and see him? He does not know 
that I am writing this ; he would be too proud to 
let me do so if he knew it. Besides, he has said 
often that when people are rich, like you, they hate 
to be appealed to by old friends who are poor. Is 
this true of you? I don’t know. At all events, I 
give you the chance of proving yourself better 
than others in your position.” 

The letter was signed, “ Mary Caledon.” Then 
there was a not unimportant postscript : 

“ I was near forgetting to tell you that we live 
in a couple of little rooms at the top of No. 27, 
Agar Street, Strand; a trying ascent even for 
friendship ; another excuse for you not to come.” 

Laurence Caledon ! His old friend ! Yes, in- 
deed ; they had been friends for years. Their fathers 
had been friends. It was only a love trouble of 
Roland’s which had separated them. When Roland 
came back to his father, he learned that Laurence 
had got married and gone to live at Constanti- 
nople, where he was practising as a barrister, and 
doing well, it seemed, at the International Court. 
Roland remembered feeling at the time a pang of 
something like envy because of the married happi- 


THE HOUSE IN AGAR STREET 


11 


ness of his friend. He had heard that Laurence’s 
wife was young, beautiful, and clever ; but that she 
had very little money. After his father’s death, 
he had tried to find Laurence in Constantinople; 
but Laurence and his wife were away somewhere, 
and so the matter dropped through. Roland wa3 
always hoping to meet his old friend again, although 
he could not help thinking, with a little dash of 
bitterness of his own, that his old friend, now that 
he was happily married and settled down, would 
perhaps not care much about him. 

And this was what had come of it all ! Laurence 
was in London, poor, broken down, perhaps in 
actual want. The letter from his wife — how bitter 
it was and distrustful ! He could well excuse that ; 
one of the many curses of poverty to those who 
have not been always poor is that it makes them 
so cruelly suspicious. Yet, while the tone of the 
letter rather repelled him, or at all events called 
for some mental excusings and explainings on his 
part, he could not but see that it did show some 
trust in him too, and that it did, as the writer said, 
give him a chance of proving that he was not the 
sort of man to turn from a friend who is down. 

It was now seven o’clock. Roland had proposed 
to dress, to dine at his club, and to look into a 


12 


BOLAND OLIVER 


theatre. He thought no more of the dinner or the 
theatre, but got into a hansom and started in quest 
of his old friend. Night was darkening down when 
he reached Agar Street in the Strand. 

Agar Street is not a lively or a picturesque or 
an interesting thoroughfare. It gives one at first 
the notion that it is a street presenting only blind 
sides to the eye of the wayfarer. It seems out of 
the question to think of anybody living in such a 
place; to associate it with the thought of house- 
hold fires, and cosy hearths, and the prattle of 
children’s voices. The yellow walls and pillars of 
a hospital stretch along one whole side of the 
street; and although no institution devoted to 
man’s benefit can be more useful than a hospital, 
yet the sight of one of these structures does not, 
as a rule, tend to brighten a neighbourhood. The 
other side of the little street was composed of tall, 
gaunt houses, the lower floors of which were given 
up to organisations of various kinds — a district 
School Board office, a private inquiry office, various 
offices of limited liability companies, an agricul- 
tural newspaper office, one or two dismal shops 
and forlorn coffee-houses. 

Boland wandered up and down the street for a 
while, trying in the semi-darkness to find out the 


TEE HOUSE IN AO AH STREET 


13 


particular number of which he was in quest. He 
thought he had never seen a more dreary region. 
A man in robust health might be excused if his 
spirits were to give way under the mere pressure 
of having to inhabit such a thoroughfare. But 
only fancy being a poverty-stricken invalid there ! 
In truth Roland could not see any signs of life in 
any of the houses, except the two or three small 
shops and the windows of the hospital. The other 
tenements seemed to be places where business of 
some kind was transacted in the day, and which, 
after business hours, were left to the darkness, the 
rats, the black beetles, and the ghosts. 

At last Roland found the house. Its lower floor 
was occupied by a society for the diffusion of some- 
thing; and there were bell-handles rising one above 
another, corresponding with and symbolical of the 
several flights and floors. Some of the bell-handles 
had names inscribed beneath ; the uppermost one 
bore no name. About to touch this uppermost bell, 
he stopped for a moment and let the past come 
back upon him. 

Roland Oliver was 

Lord of himself — that heritage of woe, 

as Byron says. He had no isolations — at -all events 


14 


BOLAND OLIVER 


no near relations — living. His father had been in 
trade ; had owned a large West End establishment, 
with the privilege, blazoned on the outside, of pro- 
claiming himself a servant of the Royal Family. 
The father, who had but the one child, especially 
desired him to turn out a gentleman, and was 
strong and severe on the subject of rank and 
respectability. A Spanish grandee of Old Castile 
could not have been more entirely filled with con- 
tempt for his humble fellow-creatures. His theories 
had been dinned into the young man’s head with 
the natural effect of making him a theoretical 
leveller of all class distinctions. The elder gene- 
ration never seems quite to know how to manage 
the younger. The natural inclination of the 
younger set — of all of us when we were younger 
— is to get into antagonism with the accepted 
principles and theories which are preached at us 
by our too wise and self-asserting parents. The 
elder man in this story ought to have preached to 
the younger nothing but the brotherhood of man 
and the baseness of earthly dignities and class 
distinctions ; then he might have quietly carried 
his point. He did not adopt such a plan, how- 
ever, and he failed ; and his son fell in love 
with the- daughter of a music - master who lived 


THE HOUSE IN AGAR STREET 


15 


in Clapham. Roland told his father of his love, 
and the father stormed at him ; the lover would 
not give way, and so the angry parent turned 
him out of doors. 

The young man’s pride and love sustained him. 
He told all to his love, and told her he was deter- 
mined to go out and conquer the world for her ; 
in other words, make a fortune for her. They 
could not marry while he had nothing and she had 
nothing ; but give up each other they would not. 
So Roland turned into money some of the few 
valuables left him by his mother, and started out 
for the diamond mines of South Africa. Miss 
Lydia Palmer, his sweetheart, gave him as they 
were parting, not merely a lock of her dark brown 
hair, but an interwoven armlet or bangle of it, 
which he was always to wear for her sake, and 
which was to be a sort of amulet for his constancy 
and his personal safety. 

He did not begin to make much of a fortune. 
If the luck was not dead against him yet it did 
not do much for him. He went on striving and 
straining. He had a certain capacity for inventing, 
and he turned out various inventions meant to be 
useful in mining work. But the inventions only 
returned, as Macbeth says, to plague the inventor. 


16 


BOLAND OLIVER 


A whole year went over in this way, until one 
day the European mail brought him out two 
letters, each of which had some effect upon his 
life. One was from his softened and repentant 
father, full of affection, beseeching him to come 
home and marry whom he pleased, and bring her 
to live in the paternal home, and adding that the 
health of the writer had been but poor of late. 
The other was from his sweetheart, quietly telling 
him that she was not his sweetheart any more; 
that she was sure their engagement was a sin, 
because it was opposed to the wishes of both their 
parents — which was news to Roland, so far as her 
parent was concerned — and that therefore it must 
be considered as broken off ; and that she would 
trouble him to return her the armlet of dark brown 
hair. The meaning of this, as he soon after learned, 
was that the inconstant Lydia had grown tired of 
waiting, had lost faith in his conquering the world 
for her, and had been asked by a clever young 
lawyer to honour him with her hand. Before 
Roland got back to England she was married ; 
and oh, what a pang of remorse went through her 
sensitive heart when she learned that her rejected 
lover was taken back to his fathers house, and 
was to be his father's heir, and that if she 


THE HOUSE IN AGAR STREET 


17 


had only waited she would have shared the in- 
heritance ! 

This was three years before the opening of the 
story we have to tell. The father died within a 
year. He had sold off his business and his estab- 
lishment, and when dying left his son a considerable 
fortune. The young man found himself not indeed 
rich in the vast sense of present day fortunes, 
but with enough to give to a bachelor a life of 
luxury, if he cared about it, and to enable him, if 
he chose to marry, to offer to his wife a nice houso 
in the West End, a brougham, a victoria, and a 
horse to ride in the Row. 

Roland was very sorry for his father ; his mind 
was filled with contrition, although he had really 
done nothing which called for contriteness. Ho 
and the elder man had lived a very happy season 
together before the father died ; and the young 
man’s heart was wounded sorely at the time, and 
kindness touched him. After his father’s death he 
went abroad, and wandered about a good deal, 
just going whither chance or caprice might take 
him. During his wanderings and his lonely think- 
ings he found a great change had come over him. 
He had turned from a boy into a man. 

At last he made up his mind to go home — that 

B 


18 


ROLAND OLIVER 


is to say to go back to England, for it was not now 
muck of a homo to him. But ho began to think 
that it was time he should now turn to and do 
some work in the world. IIo was not quite clear 
what the work was to be, but he said to himself : 
“ I have a good deal of money ; I have had an 
education ; I have picked up a pretty fair share of 
experience in various ways ; I have read many 
books, and I know a lot of things that cannot 
bo learned from books; I have suffered not a 
little, and there ought to be some way in which I 
could be of service in the world.” His heart was 
much humbled and softened. He had quite re- 
covered from the hurt that had been given him 
by his false true-love — whom he had only loved 
because at the time he had to love somebody ; but 
he was not in the least inclined to try another 
chance of love-making. He did not care much for 
the society of women ; as he chanced to find them 
they seemed either too young to be interesting or 
not quite young enough to be idolised. On the 
whole it must be owned that when he returned to 
London he was by no means an unhappy young 
man ; such sorrow as he had had was now a source 
of sweetness and not of bitterness to his heart. 
After the first few days in London he began to find 


THE HOUSE IN AGAR STREET 


19 


life very interesting. The only acquaintances he 
had in the metropolis were people he had met when 
travelling; some of them were well worth know- 
ing, and gave him a cordial welcome. It was 
the spring-time of the year, and spring-time was in 
the breast of the young man. 


CHAPTER II. 


THE OLD FRIEND AND THE NEW. 

OLAND rang the uppermost bell and 
the door was presently opened by a 
pretty little servant-girl, who seemed 
almost amazed at the sight of any visitor. She 
told him that Mr. Caledon was at home, and 
volunteered the additional information that Mr. 
Caledon never went out. Then she took his card 
and showed him the way up flights and flights of 
narrow, creaking, crumbling stairs, and at last 
led him into a tiny passage, so small that there 
was some difficulty in managing to close the door 
behind him. Certainly the place had not been 
arranged, even in the original plan of its archi- 
tect, for the reception of many visitors. 

There would seem to be some other difficulty 
also about his admission. Roland was allowed to 
’>nnain quite a long time in the narrow passage. 



THE OLD FRIEND ASD THE NEW 


21 


“ Only one of the mysteries of poverty,” thought he 
to himself. “ My poor friend’s surroundings are 
such as he is unwilling to show to outer eyes ; he 
and his wife and the servant are no doubt making 
some hasty touches of improvement here and there. 
If he only knew how little need there was for 
ceremonial with me ! ” 

Then a door opened and the little serving-maid 
invited him to come in. 

When he entered he certainly was surprised ; 
he saw himself in a tiny sitting-room, most taste- 
fully and even elegantly furnished and decorated. 
It was very small indeed, but nothing could have 
been prettier than its get-up and its general ar- 
rangements. The walls were done in delicate 
distemper ; the ceiling carried out the tone and 
idea of the walls ; the furniture was all white ; the 
mirror over the chimney-piece was draped in soft 
white; a carpet of delicate, noiseless felt was on 
the floor ; the portieres were in perfect harmony, 
both in colour and material, with the carpet and 
the furniture, just striking a middle and blending 
note between the pearl-white and the soft greenish- 
gray ; a few etchings in frames were on the walls. 
It was altogether a sort of bijou room. This did 
not look very like utter poverty. Nor could he 


22 


BOLAND OLIVER 


suppose that this was but the wreck of former 
elegance, the remains of better days ; for the whole 
get-up was evidently new. u Laurence’s wife is vain 
and silly," he at once charitably assumed, “and 
has either spent all they had left or run into debt 
to keep pretty things about her.” 

One of the curtains was withdrawn, and Laurence 
Caledon limped or dragged himself slowly, heavily, 
feebly into the room, leaning on the shoulder of 
the little serving-maiden. He stopped for a mo- 
ment, and gazed into Roland's face. 

Meanwhile Roland had a chance of surveying 
his old friend. The old friend had changed indeed. 
He had been handsome and shapely, and vain of 
his face and his form. His form was now bent and 
shrunken, the shoulders bowed, the chest sunken. 
His face was miserably thin and pale; his eyes 
had too much lustre in them. What was his age? 
About thirty He might have been fifty, and a 
very ill-preserved fifty. The shock of seeing him 
thus changed made Roland silent for a moment. 
Then he recovered himself, and seized Caledon's 
white emaciated hand. 

“ Dear old chap," he exclaimed with a fervour 
which was all unfeigned, “ I am so glad to see you.” 

Laurence smiled a rather constrained smile. 


THE OLD FllIEND AND TnE NEW 23 


“Glad to seo me like this ? " he asked. 

“Oh, come, now, you know what I must feel 
about that ; only I am glad to be able to come and 
see you, and talk to you, and hear all about you, 
and see what can be done to make things cheerful. 
I am so much alone in London myself that I am 
beginning to hate solitude, and I don't know what 
I should have done if I had not heard that you 
were here." 

“ I am glad to see you — really glad," the sick 
man said, his face brightening a little. “ Sit down, 
old friend." Laurence himself lounged feebly on 
to a sofa. “ That will do, Annie. Now, please, go 
and say to Mrs. Caledon that she may come in. 
You only know my wife as a correspondent, I 
think ? ” 

(< Only as a correspondent. It was so kind of 
her." 

“ I didn't know anything about it ; she only 
told me just this moment — when you came.” 

“My dear fellow, you don’t really mean to say 
that you were going to remain in London all the 
time, and never let me know ? Don’t you know 
that I hunted you up in Constantinople for days 
and days ? " 

“Constantinople! Oh, I dread to think 


24 


ROLAND OLIVER 


those days; such a contrast to these! Ah, yes; 
everything looked bright and smiling then. I beg 
your pardon, Roland, but I almost wish you hadn’t 
mentioned Constantinople. ‘ A sorrow’s crown of 
sorrow/ don’t you know, Tennyson says,- ‘ is remem- 
bering happier things.’ ” 

“Poor fellow!” Roland pityingly thought; 
“how morbid his illness has made him. One will 
have to be pretty careful what one is saying. 
There’s one subject choked off, to begin with ; and 
I was very anxious to know how they were getting 
on in Constantinople, and what made them leave 
it, and how he came to be so much of an invalid. 
Well, it is not a question of gratifying my curiosity, 
but a question of how to do some good for him.” 

“ All right, Laurence,” he said ; “ I am sorry 
I said anything. I am awfully stupid about 
things ” 

“No, no, my dear friend; but I am absurdly 
sensitive. You shall hear all about it ; you shall 
know my whole story. My wife will tell you ; it 
will please her to talk about it; she has none of 
my foolish sensibility. See, here she is. Mary, 
this is my old friend, your new correspondent, 
Mr. Oliver.” 

Roland rose, of course, but he did not go for- 


THE OLD FRIEND AND THE NEW 25 


ward and offer his hand; something made him 
leave to her the definition of the sort of terms on 
which they were to meet. He had a quick eye ; he 
studied her at a glance, and took in every point. 
The impression she gave him on entering the room 
was that the room was too small for her. Yet she 
was not much more than common tall ; no one 
would speak of her as a tall woman. Nor was she 
of Juno-like proportions; she was rather slender, 
but very finely formed; short in waist, with length 
of limb. She had the bust of a Greek statue. Her 
face was singularly delicate in its mould, with a 
complexion exquisitely pale ; fair is not the word to 
describe it. As she entered, a slight pink flush 
came up, as it seemed, behind the pale curtain of 
the skin, and gave something of the effect of a 
rosy light inside an alabaster lamp. In short, Mrs. 
Caledon was a very striking woman to look at; 
decidedly what one would call queenly, but with 
the melancholy dignity of a discrowned queen. It 
was this appearance that impressed our hero at 
first with the idea that she seemed out of propor- 
tion with the tiny sitting-room. 

Mrs. Caledon bowed, and hardly smiled ; but 
ther® wa3 certainly a welcome on her face, which 
made his position easier for the visitor. 


26 


BOLAND OLIVER 


“ I knew you would come,” she said in a voice 
that was low and soft, but so sweet and clear that 
every word floated to the listener’s ear. 

“Of course I would come; but how did you 
know it ? ” 

“ I can’t tell ; but I felt certain. My husband 
has told me so often about you.” 

“ Well, the great thing is that we have got him 
here,” Laurence said, with a resolute effort to be 
cheerful; “and it does not much matter, Mary, 
whether we knew he would come or not. We want 
to hear all about him, and what he has been doing, 
and what he is going to do. I don’t suppose he 
will much care to hear about our private medi- 
tations.” 

“ But I want to hear all about you.” 

“ She’ll tell you all, you may be sure. But now 
this is our first meeting for ever so long, let us 
talk of cheerful things. How do you like London 
again ? ” 

“ Oh, I am in love with it ! I can’t get half 
enough of it.” 

“ No ? ” Laurence asked, with a sigh. “ Well, I 
used to feel like that once, when we were out 
there.” He jerked his head as if to indicate that 
somewhere just behind him stood the Constanti- 


THE OLD FRIEND AND THE NEW 27 

nople of which he did not care to name the name. 
“ I used to think it would be delightful to knock 
about London once again. But here I am in 
London, and what have I to do with London ? I 
might as well be a thousand miles away. I never 
go out; I never see anything of London but the 
walls of the houses' over the way, and not even 
these lively objects very often.” 

“ But why don’t you get out ? It must be 
awfully bad for you, living for ever between these 
four walls.” 

“ Of course, I know it’s bad for me ; of course, 
I know it is killing me. But what can I do? I 
can’t walk ; I am too weak and crippled ; and my 
means don't precisely allow me to keep a carriage." 

“But, my dear boy, there are such things as 
hansom cabs.” 

“ I detest hansom cabs ; I detest the rattle, and 
the trouble of getting in and out, and the trying to 
make the driver hear through a hole in the roof. 
Oh, no, no; I hate hansom cabs, and, of course, 
one couldn’t stand a growler; and so I find it 
better, after all, to stay indoors. Perhaps it won’t 
be for very long,” he added, significantly. 

Roland glanced involuntarily at Mrs. Caledon 
when Laurence had said this. She got up as if to 


28 


LOLASV OLIVER 


look for something, and disappeared behind the 
curtain. 

“ Come, now, Laurence, you said, I thought, we 
were not to talk of any but cheerful things to-day. 
One thing only I want to say, now that your wife 
isn’t here — you know, it must be very bad for her 
to be always within doors ; she does not seem to 
me to be in good health by any means.” 

4< The great thing,” Roland said in his own mind, 
“is to withdraw poor Laurence’s attention from 
himself by giving him an alarm about his wife. 
I am sure his malady increases by his constantly 
dwelling upon it and upon his own general con- 
dition. It would be better even to startle him, by 
telling him frankly that his wife seems out of health 
and needs looking after as well as he.” 

“ She not in good health ? Oh, yes ; she’s all 
right enough. She always looks a little pale — 
just like that — but she’s quite well. And she can 
go out as much as she likes — of course she 
can.” 

“ But I dare say she doesn’t like to leave you 
here alone.’* 

“Oh, I don’t mind being left alone, I rather 
like it sometimes. I wouldn’t for anything keep 
her in if she wanted to get about. I know how 


THE OLD FRIEND AND TILE NEW 


29 


egotistic invalids generally are, and I always do my 
best not to think of myself.” 

“ Does not the doctor tell you that you ought to 
go out ? ” 

“Doctor? Oh, I haven’t any doctor.” 

“No doctor? Good gracious! why don’t you. 
have one ? ” 

“ Well, any sort of a doctor worth sending for* 
has to be paid so much. Two guineas for the first 
visit, and some of them expect two guineas for every 
following visit as well. No, my dear fellow, my 
finances don’t run to that.” 

Mrs. Caledon here came back into the room. 

“Why don’t you make your husband have a 
doctor, Mrs. Caledon ? ” he asked her, bluntly. Ho 
was beginning to get angry with her. He set down 
the fittings and furniture of the room to her account, 
and he could not understand why she did not insist 
on taking care of her husband. She knew how 
unwell he was, for she had written it in her 
letter. 

“I have tried often,” she said; “but I can’t 
prevail on him. He will not think about himself ; 
I cannot get him to think about himself. That is 
why I wanted you, his old friend, to come and see 

him ; at least that is one reason. If he were more 


30 


BOLAND OLIVER 


of a selfish man he might have been well long 
ago” 

“ Please never mind about my good qualities 
and virtues and all that,” Laurence said, with a 
softer and more pleasing tone in his voice than it 
had yet given out. “ My old friend here knows all 
about me, or if there is anything he doesn't know 
he will soon find it out.” 

“Well, I shall take very different measures I 
can tell you. I am going to ‘ boss this show,' as the 
Americans say. You shall be looked after by a 
doctor — and that at once ; and he shall be a pretty 
masterful one, too, who will have his way. And 
you shall drive out and enjoy the open air, and the 
days will be growing brighter and warmer every 
week ; and, I say, we'll go and see things, shan’t 
we ? Iam so glad to have found you, for I was so 
desolate; and now, old chap, we’ll have a good 
time.'' 

There was something positively contagious about 
the cheerfulness and the friendly sympathetic sin- 
cerity of the young man. It was like the first ray 
of sunlight, the first breath of the west wind, coming 
into a room that had long been closed and darkened. 
Laurence's sad and meagre face actually broke into 
smiles, Roland gave one glance at Mrs. Caledon 


THE OLD FRIEND AND THE NEW 31 


and then turned quickly away. Her eyes were filled 
with tears. “ Come,” Roland thought, “I’ve found 
something to do at last. For the present my busi- 
ness in life is to brighten this home; and I’ll do it, 
and I am prepared to give long odds that I get him 
back into good health again.” 

Laurence, meanwhile, stretched out his hand. 

“ Your hand, old boy,” he said ; “ I see you are 
the same dear old boy as ever. Yes, I think it 
would be nice to go out again a bit; I think it 
would do me good.” 

“ Why, of course, it would do you good, and it 
shall do you good, so we needn’t talk about that 
any more. But look here, do you know that it is 
eight o'clock, and I haven’t had any dinner, and 
I am getting awfully hungry? You haven’t dined 
either, I dare say ? ” 

“ Well, we only have a very small dinner, you 
know, just an invalid's dinner, a cup of tea and a 
little bit of fish or fowl or something ; nothing to 
give you.” 

“ No, indeed, you are right there ; I have a very 
sturdy appetite. I suppose there would not be any 
use in asking you and Mrs. Caledon to come out 
and dine somewhere with me ? ” 

Laurence looked up eagerly as if he were cbout 


32 


BOLAND OLIVER 


to accept the offer, but Mrs. Caledon quietly 
interposed. 

“ Oh, no — please don’t ask us ; the night air 
would not be good for him — I mean it would not be 
good for him to begin his goings out at night. 
Don’t you think so, Laurence, dearest ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, I suppose so,” he replied languidly, 
and let himself fall back into his chair again. 

“Of course you are quite right, and it was 
stupid of me to think of such a thing. Well, here 
is what I propose to do : I’ll run out to the nearest 
restaurant that is good — I know all the places 
about here — and I’ll tell them to send us in a nice 
little dinner, and, if you don’t mind, we’ll all dine 
together here.” 

" Capital idea,” Laurence declared, brightening 
up again. 

“ Oh, I am delighted ! ” Mary Caledon said ; 
and the pleasurable thought brought the pink flush 
into the alabaster again. 

Roland glanced quietly at her while rising to 
start on his mission, and he saw that she was 
gladdened because her husband was glad. 

“ I can’t quite make out about these furnitures 
and fixings,” he said to himself. “If I know any- 


THE OLD FRIEND AND THE NEW 


33 


thing of human faces and of human nature, that’s 
a true and unselfish woman.” 

“ Now then,” he said aloud, “ I shan’t be long.” 
He took up his hat. 

“Why need you go?” Mrs. Caledon asked. 
“ Can we not send the maid ? Why put you to the 
task of going up and down these stairs ? ” 

“But, my dear lady,” — his awe of her was 
wearing off — “you don’t imagine that she would 
understand how to ordor a dinner ? ” 

“ I never thought about that,” she said, with a 
positive smile. 

Then he stumbled down the stairs as fast as he 
could, sometimes taking, in his energy, three steps 
at a time. 

Roland presently returned, and was quickly 
followed by a waiter bearing a tray whereon were 
the component parts of a very nice little dinner, 
with oysters, and olives, and champagne. The 
table was soon spread, and they had a very social 
little meal. Laurence was made quite bright for 
the moment, and Roland exerted himself to keep 
the talk going. It used to give him especial 
pleasure when he could see a smile steal over the 
pale and thoughtful face of Mrs. Caledon. Ho 

g 


34 


BOLAND OLIVER 


fancied he could see that there was in her much 
capacity for enjoyment, and that she had by nature 
that most beneficent of gifts, the faculty of finding 
enjoyment iu trifling things. Now it was evident 
that she was pleased because her husband was 
pleased. They talked until it was getting late, 
and Roland becamo afraid of keeping his invalid 
friend up too long. So they were to part for the 
night, and Roland did not say anything to Laurence 
about coming next day, taking it for granted that 
his coming would be assumed as a matter of course. 
He had not yet made any inquiry into the con- 
ditions of their life; that would come gradually 
and later on. 

“You had better hold a lamp for him on the 
passage, Mary,” Laurence said, “ or he may break 
his neck down these dreadful flights of stairs.” 

“ Oh, never mind ; I shall find my way all 
right” 

“ No, no ; of course Fll hold the lamp for 
you” 

As she was going to take a lamp off the table 
she came near her husband, who was lying back in 
his chair. With a sudden impulse of delight in 
his brightened condition, she put her hand affec- 
tionately and tenderly on his forehead. Apparently 


TEE OLD FRIEND AND TEE NEW 35 


his good-humour had evaporated ; he put her hand 
quietly away, and said : 

“ I don’t know why it is, Mary, but for so nice 
a woman your touch wants softness.” 

“ You ungracious boy!” she said, good- 
humouredly, and then she took up her lamp. 

Roland could not help hearing the words that 
passed in this little incident. When they came 
into the passage she closed the door behind them. 

“ My letter was not a nice one,” she said ; " you 
must have thought it very rude and offensive.” 

“ Surely I could make allowance ! ” he replied, 
simply. “ I did not expect a woman under such 
conditions to transcribe from the f Complete Letter- 
writer.’ ” 

“No; it’s not that, but I wrote as if I didn’t 
believe you would come.” 

“ Oh, no, Mrs. Caledon ! Nothing of the kind ; 
at least I didn’t read it so. You wrote as if you 
had pledged yourself in your own mind to the 
belief that I most certainly would come/’ 

“ You read it that way ? ” she asked, eagerly, 
and with that same light and sudden flush, making 
the delicate alabaster of her cheeks to glow for a 
short moment. 

“ X read it that way, certainly.” 


0 2 


36 


BOLAND OLIVER 


She gave a sigh of relief. 

“Well, you were right, Mr. Oliver. My 
husband was always speaking of you — I mean in 
the old, happy days — with pride and affection. He 
was always telling me what good friends you were, 
and how you helped him in everything, and how 

clever and brilliant you were ” 

“ Oh, come now, Mrs. Caledon ! ” 

“Yes, he always said so; I didn’t know, of 

course. He said you could do anything 99 

“Yes; and I have done nothing, as you see.” 

“ You have time enough yet ; I am sure he will 
prove to be right in the end. But I didn’t want to 
talk of that ” 

“No, I should fancy not ; you have something 
else to think of.” 

“ I have indeed. But I am so glad you did not 
misunderstand me, or be offended with my letter. 
What I want to ask you is about my husband. Do 
you think he will get better ? Oh, tell me the 
truth — I mean, tell me what you honestly think. 
Don’t be afraid ; I can bear anything. And, you 
see, we have no children ; and it is so easy to bear 
one’s own troubles when they concern nobody else. 
Tell me ; do you think he is very ill ? ” 

“Well, I am not a doctor, although I have 


THE OLD FRIEND AND THE NEW 37 


looked into medicine a little; but I should not 
think him anything worse than heavily out of sorts. 
But he will have the best advice the best doctors can 
give. I should rather say he was run down from 
over-work, or anxiety, or something of the kind. Is 
there any reason why you should be particularly 
alarmed for him ? I mean, is there anything you 
know that the ordinary observer would not know ? ” 

“ No — there is nothing,” she said, with a certain 
hesitation. “ He is nervous and easily shaken, that 
is all. He was not so always, or, if he was, I did 
not know it.” 

“Well, then, I think you may be of perfectly 
good cheer; for, if them is not something to be 
known which I do not know, I believe he is safe to 
get well again. Anyhow, as I told you, we will 
have the best advice that can be got. Now tell 
me — like a frank, sincere woman — what can I do 
for your husband ? ” 

“ What are you willing to do ? n she asked, 
passionately. 

u Anything that friendship can do. Let me 
speak like a plain, blunt Briton. I will do any- 
thing that friendship and money can do for him. 
I am rich enough to do anything that could pos- 
sibly be needed for him, and I am ready to do it. 


38 


BOLAND OLIVER 


I have gone through some suffering myself ” — 
one of his weaknesses was to be a little vain of his 
personal share of suffering, which, after all, was not 
absolutely unique — “and I am glad to give a help- 
ing hand to others.” 

She stopped and thought. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” she exclaimed, with 
emotion. “It is so hard to manage; he is so 
proud and sensitive in many ways. I am so 
anxious about him, I am in such misery about him 
— that I am afraid I would take any help that 
was offered. Oh, pray, don't think tco meanly of 
me if I have come to that ; I would take money 
from you, if you offered it to me — and you would, yes, 
you would, I know it, you need not tell me — I 
would take it to buy comforts and rest for him. 
But if he knew he would be angry, and I couldn’t, 
even for his own sake, do anything that would 
make him angry.” 

“ But see, you thought he would be angry if you 
wrote to me, and he was not angry ; he was glad.” 

“ Ah, yes ; but that was different. He was 
glad to see you ; glad that you came to see him ; 
glad to hear your voice. It is so dull and mono- 
tonous and lonely for him here, with nobody to 
see all the day long.” 

“ Nobody ? ” 


THE OLD FRIEND AND THE NEW 39 


“Nobody but me.” 

“ I should have thought that was an important 
exception.” 

“Oh, well; he sees so much of me. Some- 
times, ” she added, sadly, “I could find it in my 
heart to wish he had never seen me.” 

“ Come, Mrs. Caledon, how could he exist with- 
out you ? ” 

“ I think all his troubles came from his marriage. 
He had to work so hard, and he was so fond of 
me and so proud of me ” — the pink colour lighted 
under the alabaster again — “ and he would spend 
his money to make things nice about me, and then 
he worked too hard and he broke down. Why, 
you see, even now — even in this wretched place 
where he is prostrate — he would spend money in 
ornamenting and fitting up these rooms, to make 
them worthy of me, he said. As if I cared for 
anything of the kind while he is broken down 
and pining in sickness under my eyes ! Well, 
I mustn’t stay too long away from him ; but I will 
light you down one flight.” He protested, but she 
would light him down one creaking flight of stairs. 

“ Now, you shan’t stay any longer. I am 
coming again to-morrow, and every day, and we 
shall have plenty of opportunity to think things 
over and come to some understanding. Meanwhile, 


40 


BOLAND OLIVER 


Mrs. Caledon, we are conspirators, you and I, in a 
grand Guy Fawkes scheme for the blowing away 
of all Laurence’s ailments and for his restoration 
to health, and work, and happiness.” 

“We are, we are,” she exclaimed, triumphantly. 
“But oh, how good you are. I always knew, somehow, 
that you would be. You will come to-morrow ? ” 

“ To-morrow and all the to-morrows until our 
poor lad gets well.” 

“ Good night,” she said, and she gave him her 
hand. 

He noticed that her touch had in it something 
delightfully soft and soothing, and he could not 
help recalling to his mind with wonder the manner 
in which Laurence had spoken of the sensation 
produced by the impress of her hand. She ran up 
the stairs, and he thought he could see that she had 
a freshened vitality and vigour in her movements. 
He was sure that this was due to the renewed hope 
which his appearance on the scene and his promised 
companionship had given her, and he felt sincerely 
pleased and happy. He had got something to live 
for now, he said to himself. If he could restore 
poor, broken Laurence and make him, once again, 
a successful and a happy worker, he should feel that 
ho had done something ; and he really did not see 


TEE OLD FRIEND AND TEE NEW 41 


any reason why he should not be able to do that. 
Six months’ rest — complete rest — for the mind from 
fears of utter poverty, would make Laurence all 
right again. Just now, poor fellow, he was so 
tormented with dread, lest his wife should be 
plunged into want, that her very presence was often 
a pain and a reproach to him. “ Yes,” our hero said, 
“I am sure I should be just like that if I were in 
the same condition. What stuff it is they talk 
about adversity being good for people ! I am sure 
it is not good for him. Why, I remember him such 
a different man.” So that even on this first visit 
Roland had got to the length of making mental 
admission of the fact that his old friend was, to all 
appearance, a different man from the man whom he 
thought he knew and was sure he loved in the dear 
old days, before either of them had fallen in love. 
“ After all, what a lucky fellow he is, with that 
woman so devoted to him ! ” 

There was new elasticity, fresh vigour in her as 
she ran upstairs. She was full of hope. Her hus- 
band had found his friend again, and all would now 
go well. She opened the door of the room where 
Laurence was lying on his sofa, and she looked 
on him with beaming eyes. He returned her gaze 
with a sickly smile. 


42 


BOLAND OLIVER 


“ Well,” he said, “ we have seen the last of /wm.” 

“Of him? Laurence? Seen the last of whom ?” 

“Why, of our wealthy and brilliant friend. 
Mark my words, he will never mount these stairs 
again ; and I am sure I don’t wonder ; I wouldn’t, 
if I were he.” 

“Laurence — my dear Laurence — how can you 
say such a thing of yourself or him ? Why, my 
dear, he is coming to-morrow, and every day, he 
says, until you get well.” 

“ Did he say so, really ? ” And Laurence’s eyes 
were lighted by a gleam of genuine gratification. 

“Oh, yes; he is coming to see you every day. 
He says, he and I are to be conspirators to take 
care of you ; and he wants to do everything for 
you; and he is only afraid of doing too much, and 
perhaps hurting your pride.” 

“ Did he tell you that, really, Mary ? ” Laurence 
asked, eagerly, and rousing himself so far as to 
lean on one arm and look up. “ Well, I do believe 
he is really a regular good fellow. And so he was 
afraid I should be too proud to take any helping 
hand from him ? ” 

“He was; that was the only thing that seemed 
to trouble his mind. Oh, Laurence, he comes like 
a Providence.” 


CHAPTER III. 


TWO READINGS OF SHAKESPEARE. 

EXT day Roland sent a West End physi- 
cian of eminence in his profession to 
visit poor Caledon. He pronounced 
him weak, rheumatic, and shaken generally, but 
with no organic disorder, and not in any danger; 
not by any means beyond hope of complete resto- 
ration to health. What the patient needed for the 
present was resrt of body, peace of mind, and 
nourishing food. Open air, of course, was declared 
to be absolutely necessary. For the present there 
seemed no occasion to leave London ; the spring 
was pretty far advanced, and London in summer 
was as good a place as any. 

Early in the afternoon Roland came himself in 
an open carriage, and the three drove to Battersea 
Park. On the way Roland talked a great deal, and 
so, indeed, did Laurence, who had found reaction 



44 


BOLAND OLIVER 


into positive high spirits. Mrs. Caledon sat silent 
for the most part ; her heart was too full of hope 
and gladness to allow her to talk much. It seemed 
to her that Roland had come to them like a mes- 
senger from Providence indeed. She saw nothing 
but hope for their future ; she felt that under 
such kindly and strong protection everything must 
come right with the® ; Laurence would recover, 
he would get strong, he would be able to take 
to his work again, they would have a happy home 
once more. Perhaps Mr. Oliver would soon get 
married, and they would all be such friends — the 
two husbands, the two wives. She had some 
faint idea that he had had a disappointment in 
love already ; her husband had told her something 
about it. But he would get over that; probably 
had already got over it, she thought. 

Thinking of these things, her heart full of these 
thoughts, she lay back in the carriage and sank 
into a delicious torpor of hope and happiness. 
How the whole atmosphere of their lives had 
changed since the day before ! What a different 
being her husband seemed already ! His irritability 
and his way of tormenting himself only came 
from nervous depression and from loneliness. The 
doctor had said there was nothing wrong with 


TWO READINGS OF SHAKESPEARE 45 


him which could not be put right by care and 
time; and now he would be cared for, and need 
not afflict his mind any more. She could not 
help gliding her hand into her husband’s as if 
to assure herself of his nearness. Another time 
— yesterday, perhaps — he would probably have 
drawn his hand away, and told her he did not 
care for demonstrativeness ; but now he allowed 
it to rest within his own, and he smiled good- 
humouredly at her. The soft breath of the west 
wind was a delight and a luxury to her ; she felt 
like a happy child again. 

“ I so love this west wind,” she murmured; “it 
seems to have all youth in it.” 

“Yes,” Eoland said; “it affects one in a sort 
of poetic way sometimes, does it not ? One fancies 
it ought to bring tears to the eyes of sensitive 
people.” 

Looking at her, he was sorry he had said this, 
for he saw that there were unmistakable tears in 
her eyes. 

She knew that he had seen her eyes all 
moistened, and she only said simply : 

“ Yes ; but it was not the west wind that 
brought the tears into my eyes, Mr. Oliver; I 
am afraid I am not poetic enough for that. My 


46 


BOLAND OLIVER 


tears just now are because everything seems so 
happy.” 

“ I don’t think that is quite a satisfactory way 
of showing one’s happiness,” Laurence said, almost 
sharply ; and he took his hand away from hers. 

“ One can’t help it,” she said. “ Mr. Oliver 
won’t laugh at me, I am sure ; and if he does I 
can’t help that.” 

“ Oh, no, indeed, I shan’t laugh,” Oliver said, 
seeing nothing whatever to laugh at. 

They were driving through "Battersea Park. 
Roland stopped the carriage within sight of a 
pretty little pool. 

“ I should like to get out, and go near to the 
water, and look at the wild- fowl, and walk a little,” 
Mrs. Caledon said. “Wouldn’t you like to* get 
out and walk a little, Laurence ? It would do vou 
good.” 

ff No; you know I am not strong enough for 
much walking,” her husband said. “ But you 
get out, Mary ; Mr. Oliver will walk a little with 
you. I shall sit here and study the wild-fowl from 
this commanding point of view.” 

Oliver had already got out, and he helped her 
to alight; at least, he offered her his hand, but 
she leaped lightly down without having touched it, 


TWO HEADINGS OF SHAKESPEARE 47 


They went near to the pool, and then stood 
and looked at the brown water. The trees which 
were mirrored in the pool were leafless yet ; the 
colours were all soft grays and browns. The water- 
fowl plashed and made noisy demonstrations here 
and there. The prattle and the laughter of children 
were heard. Mary felt her heart bound with a 
sense of sudden freedom and fresh delight. It 
seemed as if youth had at that moment come back 
to her. 

“ Are you fond of walking, Mrs. Caledon ? ” 
Roland asked, for the sake of saying something. 
He had not talked to her much as yet, and he 
could not rattle on with her as he could with her 
husband. 

“ Yes, very. At least I used to be very fond 
of it; but lately I don’t walk at all. And, as 
you know, one couldn’t walk much in Constanti- 
nople; there’s no place to walk.” 

“ Hid you like Constantinople ? ” He was glad to 
find that she at least had no objection to hearing 
the name of the city. 

“ I liked it very much at first; everything was 
so novel, and the waters are so beautiful. But I 
did not like it so much lately 

“ Laurence did not like it, I suppose ? ” 


48 


BOLAND OLIVER 


“ Oh, yes ; lie liked it very much.” 

“ But he doesn't like to hear it spoken of ? ” 

“No; he has a strong objection to being 
reminded of it. It will be better, I think, not to 
say anything about it to him.” 

She was looking down while she said this, and 
her manner seemed a little constrained. 

“ I shall take care,” Oliver said. “ I am very 
glad to be warned.” 

“ As he gets stronger he won’t mind things so 
much,” she said. 

“ He will soon get stronger.” 

“ Thanks to you. I have said to him that you 
come to us like a Prdvidence, Mr. Oliver.” 

“ Who on earth wouldn’t try to help an old 
friend ? ” 

“You don't seem to me like a young London 
man,” she said. They were walking slowly by the 
margin of the lake. 

“ Don't I ? Well, I haven’t been much in London 
these late years. But tell me, why do I seem to 
you not like a London man ? ” 

“ Because you are not cynical. *1 have been 
hearing you talk a good deal yesterday and 
to-day, and I have not heard you say one cynical 
thing." 


TWO READINGS OF SHAKESPEARE 49 


He stopped for a moment as if thinking the 
thing out, and then said : 

“ Well, it is not from any set purpose not to be 
cynical; but somehow things don’t impress me in 
that way. I think there is ever so much good all 
around us if we would only look at it, and not squint 
away from it. But I don’t mean to go preaching 
philosophy. I dare say it is very much a matter of 
temperament or of condition whether a man is 
cynical or not. Do you know that there are two 
lines of Shakespeare which impress me more than 
all the cynicism in the world ? ” 

“Yes! What are they? We are reading 
Shakespeare now, at nights. I read to Laurence. 
Tell me the lines.” 

“Don’t you remember what Brutus says when 
he is dying ? 

My heart doth joy that yet in all my life, 

I found no man but he was true to me.” 

“ Oh, yes; so noble, so magnanimous, the very 
words for a hero to die with,” she spoke with 
positive enthusiasm. 

“ Yes ; that is what I have always felt. But I 
want to ask you one or two things about yourselves, 
before we go back to Laurence.” 

“ I shall be very glad. Laurence knows that T 

D 


50 


BOLAND OLIVER 


am to tell you something about ourselves, anything 
you care to know. He is nervous and sensitive 
himself, poor boy, especially so now that he is ill. 
But you can talk to me; I know you mean to 
befriend us, and I for one am only too willing to be 
befriended by you if only it can be done.” 

Then Boland asked her a few questions which 
she readily answered. They had come back from 
Constantinople with very little money. Laurence 
hoped to do something at the Bar and to write for 
law journals. He had spent far too much money 
on fitting up their little flat, “ done to please me, as 
he thought.” All the money they now had in the 
world was just one hundred a year — which, being 
pressed, she hurriedly said was hers — the remains 
of what had been left her by her mother. 

“ I think it was a pity Laurence ever left Con- 
stantinople,” Roland said. But she did not allow 
him to get any farther. 

“ Oh, no, no. It was much better for us to 
leave Constantinople. That was my doing; it had 
to be done ; it was ever so much better. But I 
would rather not talk about Constantinople; he 
would not like me to talk about all that, even to 
you.” 

“ V ery well, Mrs. Caledon, quite right; and, 


TWO READINGS OF SHAKESPEARE 


51 


in any case, there is no use in thinking of that now. 
Well, I have some ideas ; some plans of something 
to be done — they are slowly maturing themselves in 
my mind ; some light, very light employment for the 
present — I think I see my way — and a visit to 
some nice, warm place. The plan will evolve 
itself all right by-and-by, I dare say, and I will 
lay it all before you ; we are fellow conspirators, 
you remember.” 

“ He is much better, already,” she said fervently. 
“ 'Fhe very knowledge that some one is near who 
will hold out a friendly hand to him, has made a 
change. He does not feel so lonely. Come, let us 
go back to him.” 

So they had a pleasant day, and Roland drove 
them home. But he left them, and did not go in. 
He thought there might seem a want of delicacy if 
lie were to take perpetual possession of them. 

“ I wish you hadn’t said that stupid thing about 
the tears in your eyes to-day, Mary,” Laurence 
said, when they wjere in their room again. 

“ Was it stupid ? I didn’t think about it.” 

“ No, I dare say ; but wouldn’t it be better if 
you did think a little more about things ? ” 

“Oh, yes, Laurence, I am sure it would; but 
the truth was, I was so very happy, and the happi- 


52 


BOLAND OLIVER 


ness was so new to you and me ; and things had 
begun to look so bright, and it was his kindness/' 

“ Exactly ; but we need not proclaim all about 
that too loudly. There is a medium, dear, even in 
gratitude/' 

“ Laurence, I couldn’t think so.” 

“Yes, there is. People don’t think one bit 
the more of you for being too grateful. And, after 
all, what is there to be in such raptures about, so 
far ? What has Oliver done for us ? He has 
brought a carriage and taken us for a drive. Oh, 
yes, and he has paid for a dinner. And then, where 
did he take us to ? To stupid, out-of-the-way, 
vulgar Battersea Park ! Why not to Hyde Park ? ” 

“ I suppose he thought we would like the quiet- 
ness of Battersea Park better, Laurence. I am sure 
I did/' 

“That wasn't the reason. He took us there 
because he did not want his smart friends in the 
Row to see him going about with you and me.” 

She looked with wonder at her husband. She 
had not seen him in quite such a mood before. 
She had long learned how morbid he could some- 
times be ; but she knew that this was the 
way of most invalids. Her sweet temper and 
generous spirit made full allowance for this, and 


TWO HEADINGS OF SHAKESPEARE 53 


she would no more have thought of finding fault 
with her husband for an occasional burst of peevish- 
ness in his present valetudinarian state, than she 
would have found fault with him for being tired or 
for feeling pain. But the way in which he now 
talked of Roland Oliver’s kindness disconcerted 
and distressed her. She became oppressed with 
that terrible sense of uncertainty, which is almost 
the worst thing about calamity or trouble of any 
kind. Behold, this thing or that has happened — 
when we got up in the morning we had not thought 
of it ; who shall say what is to happen next ? 
We no longer feel firm foot-hold anywhere. So, 
after some unexpected revelation of act or mood 
on the part of one we love — it shakes us ; we 
ask ourselves what may not come next ? 

“ Shall we read, Laurence ? ” she asked, gently, 
feeling a pang of penitence for having allowed 
distressful or doubting thoughts into her mind at 
all. 

“ Don’t we always read at nights ? ” 

“ Yes, dearest ; but I thought that perhaps you 
were a little tired after the unusual air and 
exercise.” 

“ If you had rather not read, Mary, you can say 


54 


BOLAND OLIVER 


“Oh, no, I am longing to read.” 

“ Well, if you are longing to read, I am sure you 
will read.” 

With this genial observation, Laurence settled 
himself down to be read to by his wife. 

It had been their habit, after they were married, 
to read together every night when they were alone. 
They had kept this up for a while at Constantinople, 
but only for a while. Laurence was very much 
out oh nights ; he frequented the society of the 
English Club at Pera, and knew a number of 
pleasant fellows from the British and other 
Embassies, and a good deal of card-playing, not 
to say gambling, went on. His wife had many 
a lonely night, and read to herself. Times of 
trouble came, and the break-down of Laurence's 
health, and they left Constantinople. All through 
his illness she read to him of nights, when he 
cared to hear anything read. Perhaps the one 
consolation she had for his illness was in the fact 
that now he was always at home with her, and 
that there were things she could do for him, and 
that her presence was necessary to him. She 
took down her Shakespeare — they generally read 
from Shakespeare, taking any place which came 
to hand. Last night they had had no reading, 


TWO HEADINGS OF SHAKESPEARE 55 


because of Roland's presence. Thinking of what 
Roland had said that day, she turned to the closing 
scenes of Julius Ocesar. She came to the lines 
which Brutus speaks just before his death : 

My heart doth joy that yet in all my life, 

I found no man but he was true to me. 

She stopped for a moment. 

“ Why do you stop, Mary ? " 

“ That touches me so much, Laurence. It 
gives you the whole character of the man. Think 
of what a nature that was ; he is on the point 
of death, and yet is made glad by remembering 
that he found no man in all his life who was not 
true to him." 

“ Yes ; but that couldn't have been. He must 
have met many a man who was not true to him." 

“ But he didn't know it ; he didn't believe 
it; no thought of it ever came into his mind. 
Because he was so true and noble himself, he 
saw truth and nobleness in all the world around 
him." 

“ That was rather like being what I should call 
a fool." 

“ Oh, but, my dear Laurence, Shakespeare’s 
Brutus was not meant to be a fool.'* 


56 


ROLAND OLIVER 


She went on with the reading, and did not 
further discuss the question of Brutus's imputed 
foolishness. Laurence for a while kept softly 
chuckling over his own cleverness and the way in 
which she was evidently disconcerted. Laurence 
had always a very exalted idea of his own clever- 
ness, and he liked his wife to see how much superior 
he was to her in intellect, as well as in knowledge 
of the world. 

In the middle of the lines in which Antony 
pays his immortal tribute to the nobleness of 
Brutus, Laurence suddenly interrupted his wife : 

“You see, Mary, he is not coming to-night." 

“ Mr. Oliver ? Oh, no ; I didn't expect that he 
would." 

“ Why not?” 

“Well, I suppose he had some other place to go 
to ; and, besides, he might perhaps think we didn't 
want him every night." 

“ Oh, that's not it ! I suppose the truth is that 
he is getting a little tired of us already," 


CHAPTER IV. 


ROSALINE. 

FORTNIGHT or so passed off in this 
way. Roland came to see his friends 
almost every day. The weather was 
growing warmer, and they drove out very often, 
and, to Laurence’s satisfaction, drove often in 
Hyde Park. At least, it was to his satisfaction at 
first, until it came into his mind that Roland had 
taken them there, not of his own spontaneous 
motion, but because Mary had asked him, and, like 
most people who love to be pleased, Laurence hated 
to know that things were done merely to please 
him. Roland had not yet matured his plans about 
Laurence. He set himself to mature these plans, 
whatever they were, merely to put Laurence’s 
mind at rest by the assurance that some means 
were to be found by which he could make his own 
way once again ; but Laurence really did not 
trouble his mind very much on the subject. 



58 


BOLAND OLIVER 


A surprise was in store for Roland Oliver. A 
new and totally unlooked-for figure was coming on 
the narrow scene of his present story. Mounting 
up and down the stairs of the Agar Street house, 
he had noticed, with a sort of languid curiosity, 
that on a midway floor there were some signs of 
a new tenancy. There was cleaning-work going on, 
and furniture was being put in. He was vaguely 
wondering why anybody should care to come and 
live in such a place. The preparations were soon 
made ; there was no further movement, and Roland 
forgot all about the matter. One day, however, 
as he was coming down the stairs, the door of 
these rooms opened, and a lady came out. Roland 
drew back to let her pass. 

“Roland!” 

The word was spoken in a low, soft tone meant 
to be at once tender and timid. Looking whither 
the voice sounded, Roland was conscious of the 
presence of a slender woman with sparkling, dark- 
brown eyes — eyes all but black in their colour — 
and he saw that she was holding out her hand 
to him ; and, behold, he was in the presence of 
his false true-love of other days! In a glance, 
too, his eyes and his mind became aware that, 
although she was not in weeds, her dress denoted 


ROSALINE 


59 


widowhood. A great pang of pity darted through 
the young man’s heart ; but it was only pity, or at 
best compassion. 

He took her hand. 

“ Mrs. Church ! ” he said. 

“ Mrs. Church ! Mrs. Church ! Well, well ! 
But I suppose that is as it ought to be, and I 
have no right to be surprised. I did you a great 
wrong, Roland — you see, I must still call you by 
the name I am familiar with; unless you wish 
me not to, and then, of course ” 

“ Oh, no ! ” he said, a little impatiently. “ Call 
me Roland ; of course I will call you Lydia ” 

“ Thank you ! thank you ! It will be like old 
times ” 

“ I will call you Lydia,” he said, “ of course, 
since you wish it. I only forgot for the moment.” 

“ I acted very badly to you,” she said, dropping 
her eyes. 

“ Never mind ; it can’t be helped,” he answered, 
feeling conscious the moment he had uttered the 
words that he was saying something either very 
ungracious or very stupid. 

A quick little flash came into Lydia’s sparkling 
eyes. That was exactly what she was by no means 
sure of ; she was not at all certain that it could not 


60 


ROLAND OLIVER 


be helped ; in fact she had made up her mind that 
it could, would, and should be helped. 

“ You have forgiven me, Roland ? ” she asked in 
pleading tones, “ I know you have ; you were always 
generous and high-minded.” 

<c Oh yes,” he answered, hurriedly, “ I forgave 
you long ago.” He did not want any sentimentality, 

“ I am so glad,” she said, fervently. But some- 
how her expression of countenance when he spoke 
of this unconditional pardon issued in her behalf 
long ago, did not seem an expression of unmingled 
gratefulness and joy. 

“ But I am sorry,” he said — very awkwardly, as 
is the man’s fashion ; he was ever so much more 
embarrassed than the woman — “I am sorry to see — 
by your dress — I had not heard — I have been so 
long out of England.” 

“ That I was a widow? Oh, yes. For more 
than a year. How time runs on ! I thought I could 
not have lived, and yet you see, Roland, I live.” 
She seemed indeed very much alive. 

“I am sorry, Lydia — so very sorry — -for your 
grief.” 

Then again a glance of her eyes might have 
told him, if he had been in the way of thinking of 
her meaning, that she was not altogether delighted 


ROSALINE 


61 


with his expression of grief. She would not have 
minded if it had been merely a formal and polite 
expression of regret ; but it seemed only too genuine. 
He was then really sorry for an event which had 
set her free ? Still, she did not by any means 
despond, 

“ Won’t you come into my rooms and talk to me 
a little?” she said, almost tenderly. “ One can’t 
talk things out here on this public landing.” 

“ Your rooms ? ” he asked in wonder. “ Do you 
live here ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ; I live here.” 

“ And what on earth are you doing here?” 

“ Come in,” she said, hurriedly, “ come in. I 
want to talk to you and we can’t talk here. I have 
hired a little set of rooms here; I live absolutely 
alone except for my maid.” She opened with a 
latch-key the door behind her, and Roland followed 
her into her rooms. They were not like the rooms 
of the Caledons upstairs; they were absolutely 
unadorned, unrelieved by any brightening of artistic 
taste. A table in the middle of the sitting-room 
with a shiny covering to it ; a gilt clock on the 
chimney-piece with a simpering shepherd on one 
side, and a simpering nymph on the other — that 
sort of thing. There were also shells as adornments 


62 


ROLAND OLIVER 


of the chimney-piece. There was a mirror. The 
chairs and the sofa were covered with the inviting 
horsehair. 

Lydia sat on the sofa and signalled for him to 
take his seat by her side. He drew a chair, however, 
and was content with that. 

“Tell me about yourself / 3 he said; he really 
felt only kindness to her; “tell me why you come 
to be here ? " 

“ Here ? Ob, I cofne to be here, as other 
people come to be here, because it is central and 
cheap, when you consider how central it is. I 
have been left but a very limited income ; but 
it is enough for me, and I don't want to add to 
it ; but I want to be of some use in the world. 
Yes, I do. You tried to form me, Roland, for 
some good purpose in life ; but you could not 
succeed — even you ! for I was too light and silly 
and frivolous then. Ah, the real trials of life have 
formed me since then. I am poor as I told you ; 
but I have enough to live on, so I want to lead 
a life that shall be useful, and that shall in some 
measure atone for wrong done and folly." 

This was a bold shot and it told to a certain 
extent. It appealed to Roland. He, too, was bent 
on doing something in the way of atonement. 


ROSALINE 


63 


“ Tell me,” he said, “ what your idea is, what 
you propose to do. There is so little allowed to 
a woman to do in the narrow ways of our con- 
ventional life.” 

She paused for a moment. 

“Well,” she said, “for one thing, I thought of 
getting elected to the School Board.” 

“ Elected to the School Board ? ” 

“ Yes ; of this quarter. That is one reason why 
I took rooms in this dismal old house.” 

Up to the moment when Lydia was asked what 
she proposed to do, she had not the faintest notion 
of becoming a candidate for election to the School 
Board. She had never bestowed a thought upon 
the School Board ; but she had a vague recollection 
of Roland's having, in other days, expressed some 
views in favour of woman having a mission ; and 
when he spoke of the narrow ways of our conven- 
tional life, as regards the career of woman, she 
thought she had found her cue. So she emerged 
at once from uncertainty into a definite, published 
candidate for election to the School Board. 

Roland seemed decidedly astonished. 

“ I never thought you had any inclinations in 
that way.” 

“ I never had any inclinations that way. i 


64 


BOLAND OLIVER 


never thought I had the capacity. As I just told 
you, you tried to form me and you couldn’t. I 
needed sterner treatment than your kind, gentle 
ways; and life has given it to me. I knew then, 
however, silly as I was, that I was not good enough 
for you — I saw that — oh, I saw that, Roland — and 
that was why. But we must not talk about these 
tilings. Let the dead past bury its dead.” 

“ All this while,” Roland said, “ you have not 
told me a word about your past history. I never 

knew you were ” He glanced at her black and 

gray colours. 

“That I was a widow ? Yes ; my poor husband 
died when we had been two years married. He 
was very good and kind to me, and I tried all I 
could to make him happy. We were not, perhaps^ 
quite suited to each other.” 

“Well, never mind about that,” Roland said, 
quickly. He did not want to go into that story. 

“Yes, yes; you are right, we will pass that 
over, and it was my fault, not his ; at least, I 
think so. Roland, you were fortunate, perhaps, 
after all. But there, I don’t want to talk about 
myself, I want to talk about you. First of all, 
Roland, I want to know if you are married ? ” A 
pretty little blush suffused the innocent counte- 


ROSALINE 


65 


nance of the widow as she put this ingenuous 
question. 

“ Oh, no,” Roland answered with a laugh. 
“And I am not at all likely to be. I am not a 
marrying man.” 

“ No ? ” And in her mind were formed the 
words, “But I am very much a marrying woman.” 

“ You are not living in this place, surely ? You 
have no need to come and live in a place like 
this ? ” 

“No; I am not living here. I come here to see 
a friend ; he is out of health, and down upon 
his luck, poor fellow.” 

“ It is like you, Roland. You were always 
trying to do good for somebody. But is it not 
the strangest coincidence that I should have come 
to live in this place too ? '' 

“It is, indeed, a very curious coincidence; I 
should never have thought of seeing you here.” 

“ Goodness ! nor I of seeing you. How glad I 
am ; for now I shall hope often to catch a glimpse 
of you as you pass by. You will look in upon me 
sometimes, won't you, for the sake of old times ; 
and to show that there is no ill-feeling ? I won't 
keep you now ; I know you are busy, and my place 
yet is not fit to receive visitors ; only I couldn't let 


66 


BOLAND OLIVER 


you pass. And I haven't got in my piano or my 
guitar yet, and when I do get them in, you will let 
me play and sing to you sometimes ? Yes, you 
will.” 

She smiled bewitchingly. Roland murmured 
out some words of promise, and gratification, and 
so on ; and they shook hands, and she allowed her 
hand to rest for just one little half-quarter moment 
in his, and she looked up into his eyes and then 
looked down again ; and so they parted. 

Roland, to say the truth, would not have been 
particularly glad to see his former sweetheart in 
any place ; and he was by no means glad to see her 
in this place. He felt compassion for her widowed 
state ; he was very sorry if she was poor ; but he 
did not like her little ways at all. She seemed to 
him full of affectation. Was that really the woman 
he once loved ? Were these vapid little airs and 
graces, and sham sentimentalities, charming to him 
at one time? It must be so; but he could not 
understand it now. She was pretty ; yes, decidedly 
pretty, and she had a nice little figure; but he knew 
she never could interest him again, and he was 
sorry that they should be brought together in such 
a way that they must needs meet often. He had 
for some time been thinking of persuading the 


ROSALINE 


67 


Caledons to move into some other quarters, and 
was only afraid that Mary Caledon would refuse 
on the ground that they could not afford to pay 
more, and that he must nob be allowed to pay for 
them. Now he felt that he really must make an 
effort. He did not want this little woman to get to 
know the Caledons. 

Is any one surprised that so complete an 
awakening from his former love should have 
come about with Roland Oliver? There is not 
the slightest reason for surprise. I, for one, do 
not believe that Romeo was ever really in love 
with Rosaline. He had come to the age when a 
man must try to be in love with some woman ; 
and Rosaline came in his way and he elected him- 
self her lover ; called a meeting of himself and 
passed a resolution within his own breast that he 
was desperately in love with her. Suddenly the 
real woman presented herself, and with her came 
the real love, and poor Mistress Rosaline’s little 
light went out in an instant. If he had ever gone 
back to Rosaline he would probably have found 
her an empty-headed, dull little thing ; or also, 
perhaps, a vain and self-conceited creature, and 
he would have wondered much how he ever could 
have taken it into his head that he was in love 


68 


BOLAND OLIVER 


with her. This was the way with Boland Oliver. 
When he fancied he was in love with Lydia Palmer, 
he was only a boy in years and in feeling. He had 
come to the time when he could not exist without 
thinking himself in love with some girl, and he 
“saw her fair, none else being by,” and he was 
glad and proud to attach himself to Lydia’s petti- 
coat-tail. He had nothing to reproach himself 
with ; he had stack to her ; he would have married 
her; he would probably have made her a very 
good husband, even after he had found out that 
she was not a woman he could really love; that 
she was not the woman ; and that, therefore, the 
woman could never belong to him. But she had 
thrown him over, and the shock had wakened him 
up, and other troubles had come in, and he had 
been a wanderer ; and, in fact, he had utterly 
ceased to think about Lydia. 

It was otherwise with Lydia. Lydia Church 
had not for a long time been able to forgive 
Boland for Lydia Palmer having jilted him. Lydia 
Palmer turned herself into Lydia Church because 
she thought there was not the slightest chance of 
Boland’s father agreeing to the marriage between 
Boland and her. The rising young barrister pre- 
sented himself ; he had met Lydia at Bournemouth 


ROSALINE 


69 


in the first instance, and he was taken by her 
pretty ways and her sparkling eyes, and he made 
love to her. She thought it all over, and she married 
him. They had to live in a modest sort of way, 
but she was happy enough seeing herself the wife 
of a future Lord Chancellor, or Chief Justice at all 
events ; she was very happy until she learned that 
Roland had come back to his father’s home, and 
would certainly be the heir of his father’s property. 
Then she became wroth with him, and almost hated 
him. Why had he allowed her to throw him over ? 
Why had he not insisted on making her his wife ? 
Why had he not run away with her ? If he really 
loved her he would have made her marry him. 
The expectancy of being a Lord Chancellor’s wife 
was all very well ; but then she now remembered, 
with the chill of contrast on her, that there are 
known cases of barristers who do not become Lord 
Chancellors or even Lord Chief Justices; and there 
was Roland Oliver, with his splendid fortune, real 
and ready to hand, of which he had positively 
beguiled her, allowing her to throw him over. 
Then her life was very dull, her husband was 
always away at his stupid courts, or at home study- 
ing his stupid briefs; and they did not go into 
society; and in any case she would have in fin ifo 1 - 


70 


BOLAND OLIVER 


preferred, other things being equal, to be the wife 
of Roland than of John Church. For all these 
reasons she was furious with poor Roland and 
hated him. 

Then came a change. Roland went away after 
his father’s death, and hardly anybody knew what 
had become of him. Poor Church, the rising 
barrister, not only did not rise, but actually fell. 
He got ill — his health never was very good — he 
had worked too hard in the effort to make Lydia 
the wife of a Lord Chancellor, or at least a Chief 
Justice ; and he died. With the help of his father 
he had managed to leave her an annuity of just 
three hundred a-year. She could live decently; 
with strict economy she could live like a lady. 
Three hundred a-year goes a long way with a 
woman. Women don’t care about their dinners, 
they can dine on a Bath bun and a cup of tea. 
They are, as a rule, no judges of wine; they don’t, 
as a rule, smoke cigars ; they don’t, as a rule, desire 
to spend heavily on the turf ; neither has the ballot 
any overpowering attraction for them. Lydia 
began to find her life of widowhood not by any 
means disagreeable ; she began to go about a 
little in a certain narrow circle; she began to 
know people. She was quite determined to get 


ROSALINE 


71 


married again at the first good opportunity; but 
she thought she had had enough of rising men, she 
would much prefer a certainty next time. Then 
all of a sudden she heard that Roland Oliver had 
come back to London and was going to settle there, 
and that he was still unmarried. From that mo- 
ment she had forgiven him all, and had ceased from 
uncharitable hate. 


CHAPTER V. 


THE PET DOVE. 

RS. CHURCH had, among her other 
gifts, a perfect passion for finding out 
secrets. She had a firm belief that 
everybody’s life enclosed some disagreeable mystery 
that the owner would not have known to the 
nearest friend ; and to try to get at the key 
of these secret chambers was a joy to her. It 
was indeed, in her present idleness, an occu- 
pation as well as a delight. She went roundabout 
ways often to get at knowledge which she might 
have easily reached by the open, straightforward 
high-road. She had, indeed, first won her way into 
the confidence and affection of Roland Oliver by 
working at him with the object of finding out 
whether he was not really in love with some other 
girl. As soon as she learned that he had come 
back to London, she set herself to watch him and to 
find oui all about him. She had no trouble in 



THE PET DOVE 


73 


getting at Lis address, and then she devoted herself 
to the business of watching him. She had as maid, 
or as a sort of companion, a girl whom she had 
taken out of a workhouse and trained up in all her 
own ways, and she set this girl to hang about the 
street where Roland lived, and to find where he 
went every day. It was easy to find. Roland 
went almost every day to the house in Agar Street. 
Mrs. Church at once assumed that he went there 
to see some woman ; at all events, that there was 
some mystery in the matter with which woman was 
concerned ; anyhow she was determined to find out. 
And then there occurred to her the bright thought 
that she might not merely gratify an innocent 
curiosity, but also advance her own determined 
plans upon Roland’s hand, heart, and fortune. Why 
not put herself directly in his way, so that he could 
not evade her ? Why not put herself often in his 
way ? Why not take up her quarters in the very 
house which sheltered his mystery ? That would 
be a delightful adventure, even if it should come to 
nothing better; and Mrs. Church, glancing com- 
placently into her mirror, told herself that she 
thought she could make it come to something much 
better. There were a good many vacant rooms in 
the Agar Street house; Mrs. Church took three cf 


BOLAND OLIVER 


them, and settled herself and her maid there in the 
character and form of interesting beneficence with 
limited means. 

“ Cora,” Mrs. Church said to her maid the day 
after she had talked with Roland, “ I want to find 
out who the person is that Mr. Roland goes to see 
here. Go and find out for me who are really living 
in this house ; who live here night and day ; I 
don’t care about the office people who go away 
after hours.” 

“ Yes, ma’am ; I’ll find out, ma’am.” 

Cora went on her quest, and was not long 
absent. 

“ Please, ma’am, I’ve seen the housekeeper, and 
she says there ain’t any one who lives in the house 
but ourselves, and herself, and an old bachelor 
gentleman who hardly ever goes out, and a gentle- 



man and lady — leastways 


who live at the very top.” 

“ A man and his wife ? ” 

“ Yes, ma’am — leastways the housekeeper sup- 
poses she is his wife. She don’t know much about 
them. ‘They keep themselves very much to them- 
selves,’ she says.” 

This was delightfully mysterious. These, of 
course, were the people Roland used to visit so 


THE PET DOVE 


75 


often. This was the invalid friend — and there, to 
be sure, was the invalid friend’s wife. 

“ Cora,” she said, in a melodramatic tone, “ I 
must get to know that man and that woman — 
especially the woman.” 

“ Yes, ma’am ; certainly, ma’am,” was the com- 
plaisant answer of Cora. By-the-way, it should be 
mentioned that Cora was a name entirely of Mrs. 
Church’s own choosing for her maid, whose bap- 
tismal appellation was Susan. 

“ How to begin the acquaintance, Cora ? ” 

“ Perhaps if I was to go up and ask to borrow 
a little tea, ma’am, or sugar ” 

“ Cora, you have no invention ; you are abso- 
lutely lacking in originality. You can execute orders 
well enough ; but you cannot devise any plan.” 

“ No, ma’am,” was the answer of the undisturbed 
Cora. 

“ Can’t you see that that would be a pitiful 
commonplace sort of thing — going to borrow some 
tea, like people in a common lodging-house ? That 
wouldn’t impress. I want to make an impression 
at the very beginning. Now if they only lived 
below me and not above, ever so many things 
might be done. I might fall in a faint just as we 
were passing the door, and then you could rush 


76 


BOLAND OLIVER 


in there and crave for help ; and I should have to 
he carried in. But one can't go up to their door 
to faint.’’ 

“No, ma'am.” 

“No; it's very unsatisfactory,” Mrs. Church 
meditated; “ even an alarm of fire would be open 
to the same objection. Nobody would run upstairs 
on hearing an alarm of fire.” 

“ Only she might run downstairs, ma’am." 

“ But then she would run into the street, yon 
silly child — she wouldn’t stop here to talk with me. 
An alarm of fire would be a very interesting thing 
in many ways, if we could only make it serve. It 
might be in the night ; I should have on one of 
my prettiest nightdresses. But then I don't see 
how we could make it work ; it would be found out 
in a moment that there was no fire.” 

“ Unless we was to set the house really afire, 
ma'am." 

“Ridiculous! Why, we might be burnt to 
death; or it might be found out that we had done 
it, and we should be put in prison for I don't know 
how long. No, Cora ; you must let me think this 
out for myself. An alarm of a burglar, and you 
and I to rush up and implore the protection of 
the man?" 


THE PET LOVE 


77 


u Bless you, ma’am, he’s quite an invalid; he 
couldn’t protect us against a mouse, not to say a 
burglar.” 

“ But we are not supposed to know that. No, 
it wouldn’t do. People hate to be disturbed out of 
their sleep ; it would make a bad impression to 
begin with. It must be done some other way ; 
some newer and better way. I’ll think it out, 
Cora ; I’ll think it out.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

So Mrs. Church sat down, puckered her brows, 
set her wits to work, and thought it out. 

The result of her thinking it out came soon. 
She nodded her head, opened her eyes, smiled, 
and laughed to herself; then jumped up, shook 
her skirts, and prepared for action. She threw over 
her head and shoulders a picturesque lace shawl, 
which, after much pulling and re-arranging, she got 
into proper artistic form, and then studied herself 
complacently in the glass. “ That will do,” she said. 

“ Cora ! ” she called to her maid. “ I have 
got the idea, and a very pretty one too. You 
could never have got hold of it, or anything like 
it, my poor girl.” 

“No, ma’am,” was the answer of the imper- 
turbable Cora, 


78 


1 WLAbD OLIVER 


Cora was not jealous of her mistress’s genius. 
She had seen that the great majority of the 
brilliant ideas failed to come to anything satis- 
factory in practice, and that some of her own 
cruder and more homely notions had been called 
in to do duty instead. 

Mrs. Church was in luck. The outer door of 
the Caledon rooms stood partly open ; the servant 
had just gone out for a moment or two. Lydia 
briskly entered the little passage, out of which 
three doors opened. Choosing by guess-work, or 
by instinct, she tapped rapidly at one of the three, 
and then, without waiting any further, she half- 
opened the door and looked in. She was right. 
These, no doubt, were the people she wanted. A 
languid, invalid young man and a young woman — 
of course, his wife. The invalid was reclining 
in a chair ; the wife had apparently been reading 
something to him. At the sound of Lydia’s voice 
she roso up, a book in her hand. 

Lydia put on the prettiest air of perturbation. 
She spoke in stammering words, almost breathless 
with shy eagerness and anxiety, and with eyes 
looking everywhere. 

“I beg your pardon; I am afraid I am in- 
truding; but I want to ask you to do me a favour, 
just a little favour.” 


TEE PET DOVE 


79 


Laurence was puzzled and annoyed at this un- 
expected visitation. Like many men who rather 
look down upon their wives and women in general, 
he had a way of apparently turning to his wife 
for an explanation of everything, as though she 
were an omniscient creature. He therefore now 
looked sharply, not at the intruder, but at Mary, 
as if to ask, “ Who is this woman ? Where does 
she come from ? Why does she come ? ” 

Mary rose, and with all her natural sweetness 
of manner asked the lady to come in and explain 
herself. She very much hoped in her heart that 
the visitor would make her stay and her story 
short, for she feared that Laurence’s humour might 
lead him to show signs of impatience. 

“ Only this : if you would kindly open your 
front windows for a little — oh, I see they are 
opened already; but I had better explain myself 
all the same. I have a pet dove — oh, such a sweet 
little creature — that I am so fond of. I never let 
him fly since I came to live here until to-day, and 
he has not come back yet, and my windows don't 
open on the street, and I am afraid he may not 
know how to get to me ; and I have asked all 
the other people in the house just kindly to leave a 
window open for a short time until my little pet 
comes back.” 


80 


BOLAND OLIVER 


All this was said rapidly, and with a sweet 
tremulousness, and with many quick, shy glances 
at Laurence. Mrs. Church saw in an instant that 
the husband was the person to be won over here. 

“ Oh, yes,” Mrs. Caledon said, “ we shall be 
delighted. Your little bird shall be very welcome 
to us if he will only come in through these windows, 
and he shall be restored to you.” 

“ Perhaps the lady will take a seat,” Laurence 
said graciously. The rapid and shy glances had 
not been altogether thrown away on him. 

Mrs. Church saw this with pleasure; but, to say 
the truth, she was a little disconcerted by Mary 
Caledon’s looks and graceful presence. 

“ She is beautiful,” the little woman said to 
herself, candidly and angrily. “ She is much too 
beautiful. I don’t wonder that Roland comes here 
so often.” She thanked Laurence with a bend, 
and a winning smile shot straight at him this time, 
and she sat down. 

“ Then you live here ? ” Mary asked. “We are 
neighbours ? ” 

“ Yes ; I have been living here for a short 
time ; but I ought to introduce myself. My name 
is Lydia Church — Mrs. Church — I am a widow, as 
you see ” (she directed attention to her mourning 


THE PET DOVE 


81 


colours), “ and I am not very rich, but I want to be 
in the centre of things, and I found out this place 
and have taken rooms on a lower floor, where I live 
with my maid and my dove.” 

“ This is my husband,” said Mary. “ Mr. 
Laurence Caledon ; I am Mrs. Caledon.” 

“ Oh, yes ; I know something about you both 
already. We have at least one friend in common.” 

“ Indeed,” Mary said, much surprised. “ We 
have hardly any acquaintances in London.” 

“ Oh, this is more than an acquaintance — it is a 
friend — it is Mr. Roland Oliver.” 

Laurence looked surprised and almost incre- 
dulous. 

“Indeed,” he said. “Do you know Roland 
Oliver?” 

“Truly,” she replied, “I might answer as the 
Americans do, by asking do I know any one else ? 
Oh, yes ; I have known him for many years. We 
were great friends once — before I married. I had 
not met him for a long time — he was away and I 
was in grief — until the other day, below stairs. 
He told me he had been to see you, and he talked 
to me ever so much about you both, especially 
about you, Mrs. Caledon, as was indeed but 
natural.” 


82 


BOLAND OLIVER 


Laurence’s eyes sent forth an unwholesome 
gleam. 

“ Mr. Oliver is my husband’s oldest friend,” 
Mary said, simply. “And he is the best friend 
we have in the world.” 

“ Oh, so very enthusiastic,” Mrs. Church 
thought. “Yes; I can well believe that he is 
the soul of kindness,” she said aloud. “I knew 
him well once — now we are friends again. Well, 
I am glad you know him, too, for the common 
friendship ought to be, at least, a bond of acquaint- 
anceship between you two and me, if you will 
allow me to put myself forward in such a way.” 

Mary was greatly afraid that Laurence would 
do what she had known him to do more than once 
before ; bluntly declare that he and his wife did not 
make any new acquaintanceships. On the contrary, 
however, he relieved and gratified her by express- 
ing in the most courteous manner a hope that 
the little lady and they might be good neighbours ; 
that his wife would be delighted to see her, and 
as he was pleased, Mary really was glad. 

“How delightful for me to have such neigh- 
bours,” Mrs. Church exclaimed, fervently. “It 
was my good star, surely, that lighted me the way 
to this house ; and it looked so dreary and ghostly 


TEE PET DOVE 


83 


c, place when I first came. But what exquisitely 
pretty little rooms ! How delightfully fitted up ! 
That is your taste, I am sure, Mrs. Caledon. I* can 
see the imprint of your hand in that — and that ” 

“No, indeed, " Mary said, with a smile, “ it is all 
my husband's doing ; he has much better taste 
than I have." 

‘•'My wife does not much care about artistic 
decorations, in fact," Laurence said ; “ I am afraid 
I got it all done to please myself.” 

“ Indeed ! I am so surprised ; I mean that 
Mrs. Caledon should not have artistic tastes. Why, 
she is a work of art herself." 

“ Do you mean that I paint or get myself 
up ? " Mary asked, with a little touch of humour 
accentuating her smile. 

“ Oh, please, Mrs, Caledon, don’t think of such 
a thing. Oh, no, no — never. One has only to 
look at you ! That tint on the cheek is beyond 
the reach of art. What I meant was that you 
look so like a picture or a statue, do you know — if 
I may be excused for saying such a thing bluntly 
out — I never saw a better-assorted pair ; both so 
handsome, and both a little delicate. I am not 
paying a compliment ; I am only saying what I 
think ; it is a way I have." 


84 


. BOLAND OLIVER 


It is certain that a slight flush came on Laurence’s 
cheek. It was so long since any woman had said a 
pretty thing to him — except his wife, of course ; 
but then, men don’t always care much for pretty 
things said by their wives. 

Mrs. Church thought that now was the time 
to retreat, and leave a favourable impression behind; 
on the man at least. She did not care twopence 
what impression she made on the woman ; and, 
besides, had got an idea that somehow Mrs. 
Caledon and she would not get on. So she rose 
and shook out her skirts daintily. 

“ Well,” she said, “I must not intrude on your 
time any longer. I am so glad to have broken 
the ice. I shall expect — at least I shall ask and 
crave for a return visit.” 

“My wife will be delighted ” 

“ And you too, Mr. Caledon — you too, I hope ? I 
know that gentlemen are not fond of paying calls ; 
but in the same house, you know. And it seemed 
such a lonely house ; and I have no children.” 

Then she glanced quickly round the room, as 
if to see whether there were any evidences of the 
propinquity of children. 

“Nor we,” Mary said, softly. “ We never had. 
We are alone.” 


THE PET DOVE 


85 


“All the greater reason for our being com- 
panionable, we three childless creatures,” Mrs. 
Church said. “Well, I shall look to see you very 
soon ; and you, Mr. Caledon, too — remember.” 

“ I shall be only too happy,” Laurence said, 
with something like an approach to warmth in his 
tone. 

“ I hope your little dove will come buck,” 
Mary said, as they were parting. Lydia had for- 
gotten all about the dove. 

“ My dove ? Oh, yes, thank you. I don’t 
believe he could live without me — or I without 
him, indeed, or I without him. Good-bye, Mrs. 
Caledon.” She smiled sweetly, and tripped down- 
stairs. 

She entered her own rooms in an exulting' 
mood of mind. She had begun well, she though r, 
and she would take good care to improve her 
opportunities. She had made out a whole story 
for herself. Roland was caught by the fascinations 
of that pale, very handsome, intellectual woman, 
who was of course drawing him on to get money 
out of him. Lydia was not much disturbed at the 
thought. Roland could not marry Mrs. Caledon, 
and she knew he was not given to amorous 
intrigue of any kind. She would find out gradually 


86 


ROLAND OLIVER 


whether Mrs. Caledon was inclined to assist hci 
in trying to get Roland to marry his old sweetheart. 
If she was so inclined, then she and Lydia might- 
work together; if not, Mrs. Caledon must be got 
out of the way, and out of Roland’s mind somehow. 
Lydia had not quite satisfied herself as to whether 
the husband was rogue or dupe, but she would 
soon find out that; and the best way to get at 
him was by flirtation ; of that she was quite sure. 
If there were no other motive, she thought, it 
would be very nice to make Mrs. Caledon jealous. 
There was no tribute more delightful to Lydia than 
the tears of jealous wives, especially when the wives 
were handsome. 

She called for Cora. 

“Cora, you know the bird-fanciers’ shops in 
St. Martin’s Lane ? Go quickly and buy me a 
dove there. Mind, a white dove; and, remember, 
if any one says anything to you about it that I 
have had that dove for a long time, and that he 
is my especial pet and playmate, and the companion 
of my solitude — that sort of thing— you know.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


“have done with the heroics.” 

OME weeks passed, and it was summer. 
Things seemed to be going on just 
the same with the Caledons and 
Roland; but they were not quite the same in 
reality. Roland came nearly as often as ever ; and 
the three went out for drives in the Park, or to 
Richmond or Greenwich, where now, in Laurence’s 
bettered health, they were able to stay and have 
nice little dinners, which Laurence enjoyed im- 
mensely, and which Roland enjoyed likewise, and 
which Mary would have enjoyed if she could. 
There was much talk of an expedition to some 
delightful place abroad, which they three were to 
make in the autumn. All this surely ought to have 
been very pleasant for Mary. Yes, a little dinner 
at Richmond or Greenwich was very pleasant ; the 
talk of the three, in the twilight was often delight- 
ful ; Mary felt herself “ coming out ” as she had 



BOLAND OLIVER 


never come out before, about books and plays — 
they often went to the play now — and men and 
women and foreign countries, and even creeds and 
theologies. But toward the close of the evening 
came the bad quarter of an hour for Mary. It was 
not the ordinary diner’s bad quarter of an hour. 
It came when the bill was presented, as a matter of 
course, to Roland; and Roland, as a matter of course, 
paid it. 

“ Laurence, dear,” she said one evening when 
they were alone, “ is it right to let Mr. Oliver pay 
for all these drives and dinners ? ” 

Laurence looked up from his invalid chair — he 
still lounged in his invalid chair. 

“ What on earth would you propose to do ? ” he 
asked, in amazement. 

“ Couldn’t we pay now and then, even ? ” 

“ What an idea ! That is like a woman. Why, 
do you know what one of these little dinners 
costs ? ” 

" Oh, I don’t know,” she said, reddening. “I 
had better not know.” 

“ Why, that little dinner yesterday must have 
cost five or six pounds. Such splendid wines. Why, 
it’s seventeen and sixpence a — ” 

"But, Laurence, is it right that his nonev 


HAVE DONE WITH THE HEROICS }> 89 


should be spent upon us — that we should be paid 
for in that sort of way ? ” 

“ Why not ? ” 

“ Isn’t it degrading ? ” 

“ Oh no, not in the case of a friend like him. 
He has nothing to do with his money; he enjoys 
spending it, and he tells me he hates dining 
alone. Oh no, it’s all right.” 

“ I feel it a degradation.” 

“ I don’t. And I do wish, Mary, you hadn’t 
looked so sulky last evening.” 

“I wasn’t sulky, dear; only I felt pained, 
somehow, when the waiter presented the bill to 
Mr. Oliver quite as a matter of course.” 

“ Wouldn’t be of much use his presenting it to 
you or me, would it ? ” 

“No; and that is what pains me. Why accept 
these dinners ? ” 

“ Oh, I dare say you want to deprive me of even 
that little enjoyment ! Oliver must have seen that 
you were out of humour last night. He must have 
thought you in a devil of a temper. I dare say you 
wanted him to, so that he might not ask us any 
more. Well, you see he is not coming to-night. 
You have frightened him away.” 

“ Come now, Laurence, dear,” Mary said, with 


90 


BOLAND OLIVER 


unconquerable good temper, “you know he told us 
before we sat down to dinner, that he had an 
engagement for to-night, so it couldn’t have been 
my fault, you see.” 

“ He’s not coming to-night anyhow ; and we 
needn’t argue about it, Mary.” 

“No, dear. Would you like me to read to 
you ? ” 

“ I wonder is Mrs. Church in her rooms ? 
Perhaps she would come up and talk to us. I 
like her talk ; it is bright — bright. It freshens 
one up.” 

“ Shall I send Annie to ask if she is in ? ” 

Mary felt disappointed, but did not mean to 
show it. 

“Yes, dear; send Annie. Unless you would 
rather not have Mrs. Church.” 

So Mrs. Church was sent for; and she came, 
all smiles, and grace, and artless coquetry. But 
she was disappointed when she saw that Roland 
was not there; and much vexed — though she 
would not show her vexation — when she found 
that Laurence, before sending for her, knew he 
was not to be there. She had begun to suspect 
that Roland tried to avoid her. That she did 
not much mind; she thought she could win in 


“ HAVE DONE WITH THE HEROICS 


91 


the end, and she had counted on obstacles and 
difficulties. But she did not by any means relish 
the idea of being sent for merely to entertain 
Mr. Caledon, and, in order that her evening might 
not be wholly thrown away, she set herself to 
finding out all that she could of that gentleman's 
past career. She made out something to go upon ; 
she made out that he had lived in Constantinople, 
and did not like to be reminded of the fact. 

<e Eleven o’clock ! ” she suddenly exclaimed, 
jumping from her chair. “ I had no idea it was 
so late. How we have been talking ! I have 
enjoyed myself ! So kind of you to send for me ! " 
“May we send for you again?" Laurence 
asked sweetly. 

“ If you don’t — and very soon — I'll come with- 
out being sent for," she answered. 

That, indeed, was what she fully meant to do. 
Mary Caledon found her mind occupied — sadly 
and painfully over-occupied — in trying to understand 
her husband. There were times when she could 
not make up her mind as to whether he loved 
Boland or detested him. To her he spoke alter- 
nately in highly-wrought praise of his friend and 
in bitter disparagement of him. He did not seem 
to be able to do without Boland's company 3 he 


92 


BOLAND OLIVER 


was uneasy and distressed if Roland allowed a 
day or two to pass without coming to see them. 
He occasionally grumbled at her for not being, 
as he said, “ nice enough ” to Roland. Mary 
admired Roland, and appreciated him to the full ; 
but she found the whole situation becoming very 
hard to bear. What especially troubled her was 
that Laurence seemed quite content to sink into 
a condition of absolute dependence. He was much 
better in health now, and she thought he would be 
better still if he would work a little every day 
at some light literary task ; something that would 
show he was able and eager to make an effort 
on his own account. She could not endure the 
idea of his thus settling down to live on the bounty 
of his friend, and she was determined it should 
not be, even if she had to speak to Roland himself 
on the subject. She was conscious that her mind 
was becoming morbid, from thus continually dwell- 
ing on the one subject ; and she began to have 
a miserable feeling that her respect for her 
husband was crumbling away. From this thought 
filie started at first in horror; but it would not 
go from her; it followed her like the “ frightful 
fiend,” that “ close behind doth tread,” in “The 
Ancient Mariner.” 


“ HAVE DONE WITH THE HEROICS 


Was she getting a little jealous of Roland? 
Certainly it vexed her to know that every day 
Laurence was looking out eagerly for his coining. 
It vexed her to think that she was less necessary to 
her husband's life than she had been a short time 
ago. Then she was angry with herself because 
she could allow such ignoble ideas to enter into 
her mind. Perhaps this made her all the more 
angry with Roland, because he was the cause of 
the ideas having any existence at all. She could 
discover nothing in Roland which was not healthy, 
manly, and true. Such an influence ought surely 
to be only for good, wherever it came ; and yet 
it did not seem to do much good for that little 
household — in the spiritual sense, that is to say. 
Then she did not see where it was to end. Was 
Laurence to live on, and on, as a dependent on the 
charity — on the generosity — of his old friend ? She 
ventured once to suggest to her husband that, as 
he was so much improved in health now, he might 
make some attempt at literary work. But, although 
she only whispered the suggestion ever so gently, 
Laurence grew angry, and said he supposed she 
wanted him to throw himself back into sickness 
again ; and expressed a wonder that any woman 
should be so entirely without sympathy, and pro- 


94 


BOLAND OLIVER 


ceeded, indeed, to make disparaging remarks on 
the sex in general. Then she made up her mind 
that she would try to do something herself in 
the way of earning money ; and she began to 
consider what there was which she could do, and 
which any one would care to pay for; the result 
of which resolve was that she had something 
which she must not tell to Laurence, and about 
which she must consult Mr. Oliver. 

Was she also a little vexed in her inward heart 
because Roland was so strong and healthy in mind 
and body ; so manly and so gentle, and in every 
way so much of a contrast to her husband ? Some- 
times she allowed herself to think of this, and then 
it seemed a disloyalty and a treason to her husband, 
and she tried to drive it off by telling herself that 
probably all men were very much alike if one only 
knew. Laurence's faults were not great ; they 
were defects of temper and of manner only, and, 
perhaps, if she knew other men well, she might find 
that they were no better than he. For example, 
she saw that, while Roland was present, Laurence’s 
manner to him was always the same. He always 
showed the most friendly and cordial welcome to 
Roland; always spoke to him in the same friendly 
and even affectionate way. Well, but if Laurence 


HAVE DONE WITH THE HEROICS 


95 


could be so different a man in Roland’s presence 
from tbe man be sometimes showed himself to be in 
Roland’s absence, who was to assure her that 
Roland too might not have his varying moods, 
and show only his bright side to his friends ? On 
the whole, her life was not made more happy of 
late. Many of her most fervent prayers had been 
granted. Things had come to pass, the happening 
of which she would have thought a few weeks 
ago would have been all she wanted. Her husband 
was getting better; he was in a fair way to get 
quite well. He had found a friend who was able 
and most willing to help him. He was no longer 
alone and uncared for, and yet she could not hide 
from herself the truth that life was little the brighter 
for her. 

Lydia, for her part, did not find her schemes 
advancing in anything like a satisfactory way, or, 
indeed, advancing at all. She began to tell herself 
resolutely that it must be Mary who was crossing 
her path and keeping Roland from her. She had 
an inward conviction, somehow, that Mary saw 
through her, and disliked her. She was sure Mary 
talked to Roland about her, and put him against 
her. She was wrong of course; Mary had never 
said a word to Roland in disparagement of the 


96 


BOLAND OLIVER 


woman to whom she knew that he had once been 
engaged. Roland had never spoken to her of Mrs. 
Church. But Lydia knew what she would have 
done herself under such conditions, and she assumed 
that what she would do every other woman would 
be sure to do. 

The day after her evening with the Caledons, 
her faithful Cora announced to her that Mr. Oliver 
had just gone up the stairs. Lydia's room did not 
look on the street, and Cora, therefore, was kept 
very constantly on the watch. 

Lydia was delighted. “ I’ll go up," she said. 
“ HI give them twenty minutes, and then I’ll go 
up and make one of the party. I'll call on dear 
Mrs. Caledon — to be sure." 

Tripping lightly up the stairs, at the end of the 
appointed time, she nearly ran into the arms of 
Roland Oliver. He was standing in the lobby 
above Lydia's room and below that of the Caledons. 
Mary Caledon was with him, and they were in 
deep converse. Roland looked vexed at being 
interrupted. The light flush came into Mary’s 
cheek. In one moment Lydia’s eyes flashed fire. 

“ Oh, I am sure I beg your pardon," she ex- 
claimed. “ I do hope you will excuse me; I didn't 
know." 


“HAVE DONE WITH THE HEROICS" 07 

“ Why should you beg pardon, or make any 
excuse ? " Roland said, with somewhat forced 
good-humour. ""This is the public thoroughfare, 
one might say. At all events, you havo just as 
good a right to be here as Mrs. Caledon, for it 
is exactly midway between your rooms and hers; 
and you have a better right to be hero than I 
have, for I don't occupy any part of the premises 
at all.” 

“ Oh, I don't mean that ; but I don't want 
to disturb people who are engaged in confidential 
conversation. One seems so intrusive.” 

“You are not intruding in the least, Mrs. 
Church," Mary said, now quite composed. “I 
was only asking Mr. Oliver’s opinion about a 
sort of matter of business ; and I don't mean to 
keep him very long.” 

“Well, I was going to see you," Mrs. Church 
said ; “ and as I must be a little in your way 

here, in this little mite of a passage. I’ll run up 
and have a chat with your husband — if you don't 
mind." 

“ He will be delighted ! " Mary said. “ He 
always likes to talk to you, Mrs. Church." 

“ So nice of you to say so ! " And she nodded, 
smiled, and ran up the stairs. 


98 


BOLAND OLIVER 


“Laurence really does like to talk with her, 
ever so much,” Mary said; as if to relieve herself 
from the imputation of a sort of insincerity. 

“I used to like her once,” Roland said. si I 
once actually thought I was in love with her.” 

“ Yes, I know.” 

“ I don't think now that I was in love with 
her, even then.” 

“ Oh, no ! Of course not ! " 

“ Why ‘ of course not ’ ? ” he asked, turning 
on her. 

“Well,” she answered, quite simply and natu- 
rally, “ because she is too flippant. She hasn’t 
depth enough for you.” 

“ All right ! Never mind about her. Come 
back to yourself.” 

So they resumed the subject on which they 
had been speaking when they were interrupted by 
Lydia. 

That lady meantime had invaded Laurence's 
solitude. He was only too delighted that it should 
be thus invaded. He was pleased to believe there 
was a sort of flirtation springing up between Mrs. 
Church and him. This time, however, Mrs. Church 
did not seem in a mood for flirtation, Her eyes 
flashed malignly. 


“HAVE DONE WITH THE HEROICS 


99 


a I appear to have disturbed such a charming 
confidential tete-a-tete ,” she said, “ between Roland 
Oliver and your wife.” 

Laurence knew all about the tete-a-tete in the 
lobby. It was suggested by him. It had come 
to be an understood thing that any little affairs 
of business should be talked over by Mary and 
Roland, so that the nerves and the sensitiveness 
of the convalescent should be spared. The first 
landing below was usually the scene — the council- 
chamber of these conferences. Roland often 
revived his old jest about Mary and himself being 
conspirators ; and she retailed it to Laurence, 
whom it never failed to please. Yet his face 
grew dark when Lydia spoke her malign words. 

“ I knew all about it,” he said, not very sweetly. 
“ I told my wife to go and ask his advice about 
something.” 

“ Oh, yes! Of course you knew it; and it’s 
all right. But some husbands would be so jealous. 
Absurd of them ! He’s a very attractive sort of 
young man, to be sure. But, good gracious! if 
a young married woman couldn’t talk alone to 
an attractive young man for a few moments what 
would become of us all? Only, I am so glad 
you are not like most other British husbands. 

G 2 


100 


BOLAND OLIVE It 


Where did you learn to trust your wife? Was 
it in Constantinople ? ” 

Laurence frowned, and grew red, and almost 
trembled. “ What the devil,” he thought, “ did 
the woman mean by talking about Constantinople ? 
Did she mean anything ? ” For the moment he 
hated her. 

“ He was in Constantinople,” she said. 

“He ! Who?” 

" Who ? Why, Roland Oliver, of course ; whom 
were we talking about ? Did he see her there ? ” 

“ No ; he didn’t. Why do you ask ? ” 

“I don’t quite know. You don’t ever seem 
to like to talk about Constantinople. I thought 
perhaps there might have been a row.” 

“I don’t even know what you mean,” he said, 
shrugging his shoulders. 

“I don’t think I know it myself,” she replied, 
returning to her artless, coquettish way. “ Oh, here 
is your wife ! Doesn’t she look like a picture ? 

Could any one wonder if My dear Mrs. 

Caledon, I have been boring your husband to 
death with my chatter; yes, I know I have.” 

Mary glanced at her husband, and saw with 
some surprise that he really did seem put out. 

When Mrs. Church had gone, Mary hastened to 


“ TTAVE BONE WITH TIIE HEROICS” 101 


give out the good news which she had been 
burning to tell her husband. 

“ Laurence, dear, I’ve had such a nice en- 
couraging talk with Mr. Oliver. He quite falls 
into my views — into our views, I mean.” 

“ Oh, falls into your views, does he ? ” 

“My views and your views, dear — weren’t we 
quite agreed ? He does not see why I should not 
try some literary work. He thinks the mere 
working would do me good, and he doesn’t see 
why I might not get some things accepted some- 
where. He knows some editors of magazines, and 
will ask them about it. I was so much afraid he 
would discourage and depress me, and say that 
women oughtn’t to try such work. But, no ; he was 
quite encouraging, and so sweet.” 

“ You seem quite excited about it, Mary.” 

He certainly did not seem excited, or, at all 
events, exhilarated. His face was black with 
gloom. 

“ Of course, he would be sweet to you,” he 
began, and then he suddenly stopped. 

“ You don’t seem pleased, Laurence.” 

“Oh, yes; I am pleased. I feel as much 
pleasure as the matter calls for. It’s all in the an- 
as yet.” 


102 


ROLAND OLIVER 


“ But it will come to something. Yes, yes ; if 
I can only do it,” and she blushed a little at her 
own anxiety, “and he says he thinks I can. Any- 
how, it will not be any fault of his if I cannot, and 
I shall be grateful to him all the same.” 

“You needn’t overdo the grateful business, 
Mary, or make quite such a howling about it, I 
think.” 

She turned to him amazed; she had been 
apologising to herself in her enthusiasm. 

“ Surely,” she said, opening her eyes in wonder, 
“we ought to be very grateful to Mr. Oliver? 
Surely we are grateful to him ? Laurence, I don’t 
understand you.” 

“ Oh, yes ; of course we are very grateful to 
him, and all that; quite grateful enough. But I 
presume he wouldn’t do it if he didn’t like it. A 
man may have motives of his own even for doing 
good actions.” 

“I don’t see wdiat possible motive Mr. Oliver 
could have. He has nothing to gain from us or 
our approval.” 

“Yes, yes; that’s all very well, but there are 
motives in everything — motives, motives. I don’t 
fancy Oliver does it all out of mere friendly regard 
for me.” 


“ HAVE DONE WITH TEE HEROICS” 103 


“But he has a very warm friendship for you.” 

“ Oh, well ; of course. But he does not come 
here day after day to see me, that, I suppose one 
may say.” 

“ How, Laurence ? I don’t think I understand.” 

“My dear, one may be very modest and yet not 
be quite so simple. Might it not be on the cards 
that he comes to see you ? ” 

“ To see me ? ” 

“ Why, certainly, as the Americans say. If you 
weren’t a handsome woman, this place wouldn’t see 
quite so much of him, you may depend on that.” 

“ Laurence ! ” The horror of his meaning began 
to impress itself on her. She had not in the least 
understood him. Now there was a look upon his 
face that could not be misunderstood. 

“ One can see things,” he said. “ What’s there 
unlikely about Oliver coming after you, or falling 
in love with you, if you come to that ? ” 

“ Oh, shame on you, shame, shame ! ” she cried ; 
and her form seemed to grow with the energy of 
genuine passion. “ You are a coward and a craven 
to insult a woman like that.” He actually recoiled 
before her sudden outburst. He had never seen her 
in such a mood before; never thought she could be 
in such a mood. 


104 , 


ROLAND OLIVER 


“Come, come,” he grumbled out, “there’s no 
use in making too much of a thing. I don’t see 
why you should make a tragedy-queen of yourself — 
all about nothing.” 

“ About nothing ! Do you know what you said ; 
do yoa put any meaning on your own words ? ” 

“ Well, what did I say ? ” 

“ You said that Mr. Oliver came to this house 
so often to see me ; you spoke as if he wanted to 
make love to me. Is there any meaning but the 
one to be put on such words as these ? ” 

“But I didn’t say that you wanted to be made 
love to — and I don’t see where the insult comes in. 
I never had any suspicion as far as you are con- 
cerned. And I don’t see anything very astonishing 
in Oliver’s falling in love with you.” 

“Oh!” she exclaimed with a shudder, “how 
can you talk like that — and of him, who has been 
our best friend, our only friend ? ” 

“ Nonsense, Mary, nonsense — a man may be a 
very good fellow, and yet not be quite insensible to 

the charms of a handsome woman ” 

“The wife of his friend? Oh,” and the shudder 
went through her again, and she turned her face 
away. 

“ I didn’t say he meant any harm or anything 


“HAVE DONE WITH THE HEROICS ” 105 


serious — or that lie meant any tiling at all — it is 
you who are putting a bad construction on what I 
said. I only meant that he likes to come here so 
much, because he admires you — and surely if I 
don't mind, there is no need for yon to be horrified. 
Oliver is a very good fellow : there’s nothing wrong 
about him ; you are quite safe.” 

“ Oh, safe! yes; I am quite safe with him. He is 
not the man to make love to the wife of the friend 
whom he has saved from ruin, and from death. 
When he does a kindness to man or woman, he has 
no base motive in it." 

“ Who ever said he had ? I never did. I sup- 
pose a man may admire a woman without having 
any base motive ” 

“No; he may not," she said, impetuously 
breaking in upon him; “a man could not allow 
himself to admire a woman in that way, and under 
such conditions, without a base motive. Re- 
member what he has done for us; remember how 
we are bound to him. We ought to be ready to 
give up our very lives for him, if he wanted such a 
sacrifice. He knows all this ; he knows how 
grateful we are ; I say no man who had earned such 
gratitude could think for one moment of his friend’s 
wife in any way like the sort of admiration you 


106 


ROLAND OLIVER 


speak of — at least, he couldn’t without baseness ; 
and Mr. Oliver is the last man in the world to be 
capable of anything base.” 

“ Well, we have had enough about it, I think,” 
he said with a sort of snarl. 

“ I don’t know,” she said, doubtfully, as if she 
were seriously arguing the question with him, and 
with herself. “ I think we ought to ask him not 
to come here so often in the future.” 

“Yes; a very pretty idea, truly; and so put it 
into his head that I suspected him, or that I sus- 
pected you.” 

She drew a deep, long breath. 

“You have made our position so difficult; so 
distressing,” she said. “ It seems such a treachery 
to him to let him come here day after day in his 
friendly way, while we are talking of him like this. 
I don’t know what to do.” 

“I’ll enlighten you,” Laurence said, with a sneer. 
“ Do nothing. There is nothing to be done.” 

“ It seems such horrible hypocrisy.” 

“ Oh, there has to be a great deal of that sort of 
hypocrisy in every-day life. I tell you aga-in no- 
thing was said to disparage him ; and, after all, he is 
my friend, not yours.” 

“Laurence,” she exclaimed, piteously, her mood 
having suddenly changed from anger to grief. 


11 HAVE DONE WITH TEE HEROICS” 107 


“ Oh, my husband, what has come over you ? Why 
have you changed in this way, and grown so 
suspicious and distrustful and cruel? You never 
used to be like that. Oh, I used to think it very 
miseralle when you were so sick, and we were 
alone; but I would give much now to be back to 
those days again.” 

“Yes; I dare say you would/’ he said, angrily. 
" It would not give you much trouble if I were just 
as sick as before ” 

“ We were so fond of each other,” she pleaded. 
“ It was a happiness to me to watch over you, and 
attend on you, and try to make you comfortable ; 
and I was rewarded enough by a kindly word, or 
even a kindly look. And now ” 

“ You make too much of things; altogether too 
much of little, trifling things ; you are much too 
sentimental ; you let your sentiments run away 
with you.” 

She turned to him and put her hands upon his 
shoulders and drew her face towards his in the 
manner of one who is making a last appeal ; she 
looked earnestly into his eyes. He tried to look 
away and not to meet her gaze. 

“ Laurence, my dear husband, I don’t seem to 
know you to-day. You are all changed. Your 
very look is not the same. Tell me, dear, is there 


108 


ROLAND OLIVER 


any reason for this ? Are you concealing anything 
from me? Has something happened which dis- 
tresses and distracts you, and which I don’t know? 
Tell me everything. I had rather know of any- 
thing than believe that you are changed.” 

She had no particular meaning in her words, 
and could not think of anything that might, as she 
said, have distracted him. But she had a wild 
hope that something might have happened, some 
stroke of evil fortune which had quite put him out 
for the moment and made him not himself. Any- 
thing would be better than to have to believe that 
it was himself, his very self, who had lately spoken 
to her. He disengaged himself from her, and she 
let her hands fall hopelessly. 

“ Nothing has happened,” he said, “for good or 
bad. I have not had a piece of news of any kind 
all day ; I don’t know what you are thinking about. 
Now, perhaps, you will kindly read me a bit, and 
let us have done with the heroics.” 

“Yes,” she answered; “I will have done with 
the heroics.” 

So she sat down and opened her volume and 
read to him. She read on and on in a clear mono- 
tone, all the while not knowing what she was 
reading. She was thinking of the past and the 
present and the future. Was this her husband. 


“HAVE EONE WITH THE HEROICS” 109 


the husband of her youth and of her love ? Would 
he go on like this, or grow worse and worse every 
day ? How would it be with them in the future ? 
And how was she to meet Mr. Oliver day after day 
and be pleasant and friendly with him, while 
remembering how Laurence had spoken of him ? 
Could she so rule herself as to prevent him some- 
times from seeing that there was constraint in her 
manner ? It was not merely the words that 
Laurence had spoken, although these were very 
painful and shocking; but the look, the manner, 
all gave them an odious significance. She felt 
degraded; and, above all, she felt that dread un- 
certainty which, as we have said before, is one of 
the cruellest accompaniments of calamity. The 
firm ground was gone, from beneath her feet. What 
might not happen next? Their lives could never 
be the same again. Among all the uncertainties 
that she knew to be the one thing certain. She 
was not conscious that she had actually stopped 
reading. Suddenly she was recalled to consciousness 
by a noise; the book had dropped from her hands 
and fallen on the floor. The sound woke up her 
husband, who had been some time asleep. 

“Why,” he said, “you have actually been falling 
asleep, and over Shakespeare ! What an odd sort 
of woman you are.” 


CHAPTER VII. 


GO away! 

FTER a night of all but sleepless misery, 
Mary Caledon arose with the full convic- 
tion that life had wholly changed for her. 
She could never feel to her husband again as she 
used to feel to him. This conviction had been 
growing long upon her ; she had endeavoured to 
chill and freeze its growth — but the forcing-house of 
last evening’s dispute had made it burst into full 
blossom. Of one duty she felt clear — she must 
ask Roland Oliver to go away and leave them. She 
must do this for Laurence’s sake, much more than 
for her own. The generous kindness which Roland 
poured out upon her husband was not merely 
thrown away, it did positive harm to such a nature 
as that of Laurence. It made him at once dependent 
and ungrateful. From it there came to his mind 
not confidence, but suspicion. He ascribed to his 
benefactor the basest motives, and yet he was 



GO AWAY! 


Ill 


willing to stand for ever with hand outstretched to 
receive the benefits. 

“I will not tell Laurence/’ she resolved, <e until 
after. Then of course I shall tell him, but not 
before. It must be done first.” 

They had rather a gloomy and silent breakfast. 
Shortly after, Laurence came to her dressed for the 
street, his hat in his hand, a flower in his button- 
hole. He always contrived to dress very neatly at 
the worst of times ; but to-day he was quite elegant. 
In the innocent surprise of seeing him thus got up, 
Mary forgot for the moment their last night’s 
dispute, ignored the present, and went back to her 
old, familiar, loving way. 

“ Why, Laurence, my dear, you are such a swell. 
What very nice clothes ! Where did you get 
them ? ” 

Laurence looked mightily pleased. Her words, 
and still more her manner, made him hope that she 
had really forgotten the dispute of last night, in 
which he admitted to himself that he had been 
terribly indiscreet. Fancy ! in a momentary out- 
burst of unmeaning jealousy to say things to her 
which might set her against Roland Oliver! What 
on earth was to become of them if they had not 
Roland Oliver? And he knew well that Mary, 


112 


BOLAND OLIVER 


pliable and soft as potter’s clay where only inclina- 
tions were concerned, could become firm and strong 
as marble where conscience or the sense of honour 
was brought into question. Yes, he had found 
this out in Constantinople, where she saved him — 
yes, he admitted that — but at the cost of what a 
surrender and what a sacrifice to him ! 

“Yes; don’t they fit well?” he said with a 
gratified smile. “I am trying a new tailor, and I 
think he’ll do.” 

This sounded rather too grand and lordly in 
Mary’s ears to make her feel quite comfortable. 

“ Oh,” she said, coldly. “ How did you find 
him out ? ” 

“Oliver introduced me — he’s Oliver’s tailor, in 
fact ; and I always admired the make of Oliver’s 
clothes. Don’t be alarmed, Mary, he’ll get paid ; 
but he is quite content to wait any time.” 

“ I was not thinking of that,” Mary said in a 
depressed tone of voice. Then she added almost 
defiantly : “ Oh, yes, I am quite sure he will get 
paid.” The moment she had spoken the words she 
felt sorry for having uttered them, and she hoped 
he had not noticed their significance. Apparently 
he had not. 

“ Look here, Mary,” he said, in free-and-easy 


GO AWAY ! 


113 


manner, “ I wonder if you could lend me a 
sovereign ? You shall have it back again as soon 
as I get paid for that article in The Jurist , and 
I mean to finish it to-day or to-morrow.” 

Sovereigns were rare treasures in Mary's purse. 
Laurence and she had for a long time had no 
money but her little annuity. Bit by bit she had 
had to sell it out, until it came down to the poor 
hundred a year, and there she stopped and was 
firm. Still, as the money was hers, she could net 
refuse his request, and she gave him a sovereign. 

“ I am going to the Italian Exhibition," he said, 
“ and I want to be able to pay.” 

“ Oh; with Mr. Oliver? ” She was glad he had 
asked for the sovereign now — very glad she had it 
to give to him. A feeling of relief, a light of hopo 
came up in her; perhaps this was the first evidence 
of a resolve to be independent. 

“ No," he answered, hesitatingly; “I am going 
to take Mrs. Church there. She likes all that sort 
of thing, and I knew you would not care a bit 
about it.” 

“ Then you are not to see Mr. Oliver to-day ? ” 
She put this question, as the newspapers say, for 
the sake of information. 

“No ; not to-day. He may come in the evening, 


114 


BOLAND OLIVER 


perhaps; I hope so. I haven't asked him to go 
with us." 

“With us ! " The words brought an odd little sen- 
sation to Mary's heart, a sensation quite new to it. 

“ Because," he went on, unheeding, “ he doesn’t 
like Lydia Church. 1 suppose it is some lingering 
feeling of the old resentment because she threw 
him over. Quite natural, of course, that he should 
feel like that." 

She did not believe Boland had any such feeling, 
or that it was the cause of his dislike to Mrs. Church. 
But she said nothing, and her husband went his 
pleasant way. 

Then she felt that the time had come to carry 
out her purpose. Her husband was gone — and 
was not gone to Mr. Oliver’s — and her course was 
free. The short talk before Laurence's leaving 
the room had made her resolution a resolve of 
adamant. “ Before he returns home to-night," she 
said to herself, “ this must be done." She had no 
feeling of real jealousy about Lydia Church. She 
did not believe Laurence really cared about her, 
and she felt sure that Lydia had views for herself 
in life which were quite incompatible with the idea 
of her allowing herself to be compromised with any 
man. But she thought it weak, and foolish, and 


GO AWAY! 


115 


rather ignoble of Laurence to hang to Mrs. Church’s 
skirts at such a time ; and she feared that it would 
lead him to the spending of money, and that he 
would begin to borrow money of Roland. Once 
it came to that — but, no, she told hesself, it shall 
never come to that. So she put on her things and 
went out, and got into an omnibus in the Strand 
which set her down at the bottom of Park Lane. 

She might be said to waken up when the omni- 
bus stopped, and the conductor called out “ Park 
Line.” She had been plunged in thought, and 
saw nothing. People in the omnibus had looked 
curiously at the beautiful, pale lady who seemed 
so sad, and seemed to be so much out of keeping 
with the framework of an omnibus. A young 
painter who was in the omnibus said to his friend, 
after she had gone, that it was like seeing a Botti- 
celli in a Tottenham Court Road furniture shop. 

The day was one of the most delightful of 
London summer-days. The exquisite, tantalising 
perfume of flowers floated from the Park across 
Mary’s path ; it was so sweet to her that the 
sense ached at it. She stopped for a moment 
and looked through the railings on the Park side 
of the Lane; looked fondly and sadly, as one 
gazes on some dear place which is never to be 

h 2 


116 


BOLAND OLIVER 


seen again. Mary was not thinking that she 
should never see the Park again ; it would have 
been a relief to her if she could think that she 
was never to see it again. What she felt was that 
she never could see it again under the conditions 
that made it bright for her. All that was over — 
absolutely over. Nothing could bring it back to 
her, because nothing could give her back her hus- 
band — the husband of her youth, and her love, and 
her faith. 

None the less was she resolute to do all she 
could for him ; and so she turned and went her way. 

Roland Oliver had breakfasted, and had sent 
away his breakfast things, and was lounging at 
an open window with a newspaper in his hand, 
into the contents of which he plunged every now 
aud then with the desperate air of a man deter- 
mined to read or die. Then his mind wandered 
off and he fell into a pool of thought. Out of this 
he suddenly scrambled and took to the dry high 
road of his newspaper once more. 

He was thinking a good deal about how to get 
the Caledons out of the Agar Street rooms, and 
into some lodgings in a pleasanter part of the town, 
nearer to himself, and where they would be free 
of Lydia Church. He did not like Lydia Church; 


GO AWAY! 


117 


he did not like the way in which she seemed to 
flatter and flirt with and play upon Laurence 
Caledon ; he thought that her presence boded 
mischief somehow. But how to get the Caledons 
away ? Laurence could be easily managed — but 
Mary ? He actually had a wild idea of talking 
it all out with Laurence — of prevailing upon 
Laurence to enter into a plot with him, and carry 
on a pious fraud wherewith to delude Mary, and 
get over her scruples. Why not invent an employ- 
ment for Laurence — a secretaryship of some kind 
— which would occupy him a few hours in the 
day, and for which he was to receive, say, five 
guineas a week ? Arranging, for example, the 
materials for an eminent author, who had under- 
taken a work which would keep him occupied for a 
considerable time; say a “History of the World,” 
or a “ Complete Exposition of the Codes, Laws, and 
Principles of Justice of all States, Nations, and 
Tribes ” ? Laurence could amuse himself at the 
British Museum for a few hours every day, and 
Roland could hand him over the five guineas 
every week. But then, Roland asked himself, 
would even this pious fraud be fair towards Mary ? 
And he had to answer himself, no, it would not. 
He even asked himself, would it be fair to Laurence 


118 


BOLAND OLIVER 


to tempt him with such a scheme ? And again he 
had to answer, no, it would not. 

“It is very hard,” he thought, sadly enough, 
“ to do a kindly act for one’s friend in this queer, 
conventional world.” 

He was roused from his serious thinking and 
his sham reading by his servant coming to tell him 
that a lady particularly wished to see him. Could 
it be Lydia Church ? He hoped not ; but could 
think of no other woman who would be at all likely 
to favour him with a morning call. Anyhow, he 
must see her. 

“Show the lady in,” he said, wearily; and pre- 
sently Mary Caledon entered the room. 

“ Mrs. Caledon — has anything happened ? ” 

“ You are surprised to see me,” she began. 

“Never mind; how is Laurence?” he asked, 
eagerly. 

“Laurence is quite well. He has gone to the 
Italian Exhibition ; he does not know that I am 
here.” 

“ You have some bad news, I know. Do sit 
down, and let me know the worst.” 

“It is bad news,” she said; “but not in the 
ordinary sense, Mr. Oliver. I want to talk to you 
about my husband.” 


GO AWAY! 


119 


Can it be, Roland thought, that Lydia has been 
playing any tricks ? But he only said, aloud : 
“ Yes, Mrs. Caledon, you can say anything you wish 
to me.” 

“ I know. I want to make an appeal to your 
good nature, your generosity, your friendship, on 
behalf of my husband and myself.” 

“An appeal on behalf of your husband and 
yourself, Mrs. Caledon ! Well, I think you can tell 
beforehand how the appeal will be answered. Only 
tell me what it isi” 

“ You have done him so much good already ; 
you have given him back to health ; now give him 
back to himself — give him back to me — to me ! ” 
Her impetuosity startled the young man. 

“ Mrs. Caledon, I don't understand you. We 
all seemed so happy.” 

“We are not happy; I am not; he is not. 
Between us we should soon make you miserable— 
as miserable as ourselves.” 

“ Everything seemed to be going on so well. 
I was so happy to get back my old friend — and to 
make a new friend,” he added, in a deferential 
tone. 

“ Oh, yes ; it all seemed so happy at first,” she 
OKclaimed. “ I shall never forget thoso first happy 


120 


BOLAND OLIVER 


days when I said you came like a Providence. 
Don’t you remember ? ” 

“ As if I could forget.” 

“ But things are different now,” she said, sadly ; 
“and, you know, in any case it would not do for us 
to live on for ever like paupers upon you. Laurence 
takes it too much as a matter of course ; I hate to 
see it. Don’t you see, Mr. Oliver, that your very 
kindness and generosity only enfeeble him, and 
make him rely on you altogether, and not in the 
least on himself ? If you were a woman, and a 
wife, you would understand what I mean, and you 
would feel what I feel.” 

“ I do understand it, quite,” he said, in a sort of 
soothing tone. “And I can put myself in your 
place easily enough, and feel what you feel. But, 
believe me, you exaggerate things a great deal. 
Laurence is a little weak yet ; he has had a hard 
pull of it, and his nerve hasn’t all come back to him 
yet. But he’ll be all right before long, and then 
he’ll go to work, and I’ll impel him instead of 
keeping him back. Why, we have long talks about 
it every other day, about what he is to do ; and he 
seems as eager for it as you or I could be.” 

“Yes, long talks;” and she shook her head. 
“I am afraid the long talks do him more harm 


GO AWAY! 


121 


than good. When he talks of doing a thing it is 
the same for him as if he had done it. Oh, I ought 
not to speak of my husband in that way to any 
one,” she cried, “even to you. It sounds disloyal; 
it sounds as if I were finding fault with him, and I 
am not finding fault with him ; only I want you, his 
friend, to help me to make him strong and inde- 
pendent and ready to face the world.” 

“ And so I will — so I will ; but we must go 
slowly for a while, and you see, Mrs. Caledon, I 
really shouldn’t know what to do with myself or my 
life, or — or anything, if I hadn’t him to look after. 
Why, you have no idea what a pleasure it is to me.” 

“ Yes; I know,” she answered with tears start- 
ing to her eyes. “ I know how it delights you to 
do good ; but, I must tell you — oh, it is so hard to 
have to say it — that you are not doing him good — 
and that you can’t do him good in that way, and 
you are not doing yourself good.” 

“ Oh, yes, indeed I am.” 

“No, you are not. A man has no right to 
lead such a life.” 

“ Well, but you see I have money enough ; I 
don’t want to do anything in particular.” 

“But you ought to do something. You have 
talents and education and you are accountable for 


122 


BOLAND OLIVER 


the use you make of your gifts — and think of the 
time you fritter away with him and with me.” 

“Oh, fritter! The time passes delightfully for 
me.” 

“ But that kind of life ought not to delight 
you.” 

“What can I do ? ” 

“ Travel, study, write books, devote yourself to 
some cause, something ” 

“Join the Crusaders— go out and fight the 
Saracens ?” he said with a melancholy smile. 

“ Yes, why not ? There are Crusades to be fought 
still here at home. There are holy sepulchres 
to be recovered ; there are Saracens to be fought — 
vice and ignorance and the poverty that comes 
of vice and ignorance, and that avenges itself by 
engendering vice and ignorance — there, go and fight 
against these Saracens. Oh, I am ashamed of myself 
and my heroics. Laugh at me, if you like — I wish 
you would, Mr. Oliver ; for I am making myself 
ridiculous.” 

“ I shan’t laugh,” he answered, gravely ; “ I 
don’t feel in anything like a laughing mood, and 
if I am any good for one of these Crusades and for 
fighting these Saracens, I surely shall not be the 
less useful because I have two dear friends to advise 


GO AWAY ! 


123 


me and to take an interest in my efforts. I don’t 
want to lead an idle life, Mrs. Caledon, I assure 
you; I should be delighted to be of some help to 
some good cause. But I honestly do not see why 
I should for that reason have to give up your 
society and Laurence’s. Tell me — tell me why if 
I do the one thing I must give up the other ? 33 

Mary felt sorely tried. She could not tell him 
the reason why; she could not tell him the truth 
which had lately been forced upon her, that her 
husband’s was a nature in which kindness from 
an outsider only grows up poison plants. She felt 
that she was right in urging Roland Oliver to leave 
them once and for all ; that was to her a sacred 
duty from which nothing could relieve her; but 
she could not give him her reasons — her principal 
reasons. She felt, indeed, perplexed in the extreme. 

"Mr. Oliver,” she said, "I am driven to make 
an appeal to you — to your generosity, and your 
friendship ” 

“ Oh, Mrs. Caledon, any appeal from you ” 

"No; listen to me. You know how highly 
I think of you, you know how I value your friend- 
ship — now don’t you ? ” 

She stopped for an answer, and he had to say : 
“ Oh, yes ; I do know.” 


124 


BOLAND OLIVER 


“You know what a deep, and strong*, and 
tender friendship I have for you. I never had a 
brother ; but I am sure no brother could ever 
be more kind, and sweet, and sympathetic to his 
sister than you have been to me. And you know 
how I enjoy your society — don’t you know it?” 
She waited again for an answer, and he had to 
reply : 

“ You were always very nice to me, Mrs. 
Caledon.” 

“Well, then,” she said, almost impatiently, “do 
you think I would tell you to give us up if I had 
not some good reason ? ” 

“No; I am sure of that. But you ask me to 
make a great sacrifice and you don’t give me any 
reason.” 

“ Don’t give you any reason ? Have I not told 
you that while you are there, a support to him, 
Laurence never will make himself independent ? I 
think I can still influence him in the right way, 
Mr. Oliver; but I think I must try it alone.” 

“Well,” he murmured, after a silence, “I sup- 
pose there is no more to be said. You pass on me 
a sentence of banishment ■” 

“I do — I do — I have to do it. You will say 
some time that I was right.” 


GO AWAY! 


125 


ff I say that now/’ and he smiled a sweet, 
pathetic smile that sent a pang to her heart. “ I 
am sure of it. I do not pretend to understand 
you; but I know that anything you say is right. 
Well, I will go into exile — for a while; and then 1 
will come back and fight the Saracens some day. 
Thou slialt praise me that day, oh, Caesar ! ” 

“ I praise you in advance, if I am Caesar; and I 
thank you, and I bless you.” She spoke with a 
passionate energy which she could not wholly 
suppress. 

“ Tell me one thing, ” he said. “ Is Laurence to 
know of this ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ; he surely will know that you are 
going away.” 

“But I mean — is he to know that you have 
banished me ? ” 

“ I will tell him later, not now, but later ; it is 
only right. I will not have him think that it was 
any whim of yours. I will tell him all my reasons ; 
and in the end he will say that I was right. I owe 
him an absolute frankness.” 

“Very well,” he said, after a pause, and with a 
sigh, “ that is settled ; and that moan is soon 
made. I shall go abroad somewhere, and I shall 
leave you my address, so that if ever you want 


126 


BOLAND OLIVER 


a friend you shall know where to find him. I shall 
come from the other end of the earth at a word 
from him or from you. I can’t but think it is 
a little hard, bat what is the use of arguing the 
question ? ” He felt a strange storm of pain and 
passion rising in his heart. The sense was new 
to him ; he was shaken by it. 

“ No/’ she said, “ there is no use.” 

“I thought to be able to make you both 
happy,” he pleaded, hardly knowing why he was 
trying to plead. 

“You will make many people happy yet, I 
know,” she said. “You will make some woman 
happy ; I never knew a man better fitted for that 
kind work, Mr. Oliver.” 

What was the strange and painful sensation 
quite new to him, that came up in Roland’s breast 
as she spoke these words in sweet and tender tone, 
half jest, whole earnest ? In a moment he was 
enlightened ; it was the flash of a revelation. Never, 
never before had he known what now was a terrible 
truth to him. He saw now his heart laid bare 
to himself ; and with the revelation came the instant 
thought — she must never know. The one thing 
uppermost in the poor youth’s mind was the resolve 
that at any exercise of Spartan suffering he must 


GO AWAY ' 


127 


keep all suspicion of that kind from her. He 
looked up — and oh, what an effort and a pain it 
cost him — into her face with smiling eyes. 

“Very well, Mrs. Caledon; for the sake of 
that not impossible ‘ she/ I shall try to take 
care of myself when I go to fight the Saracens 
at home and abroad/’ 

“ Then you will go,” she said ; and a great 
rush of pity and pathos seemed to flood her heart. 
But her resolve did not give way. 

“ Oh, yes ! I will go. I shall go and travel. 
I love yachting. I shall get a yacht, and live 
the life of a pirate, without the piracy.” 

“ And you are not angry with me for sending 
you away ? You forgive me ? You understand 
me? Oh, please tell me that you do understand 
me — my motives, I mean, not my reasons ? These 
I can’t explain.” 

“ I do understand your motives thoroughly. 
And, Mrs. Caledon ” — he spoke with a sudden 
energy which his uttermost caution could not keep 
altogether down — “ if it be any comfort to you 
to know it, I feel sure already, here, that you 
are in the right, and that I must go.” 

“ This is not absolute good-bye,” she said. 

“Oh, no! I must come and tell Laurence, 


128 


BOLAND OLIVER 


and talk to him. Only it is the close of a chapter,” 
lie said, with a smile which was lighted but by a 
wintry sun. 

“ Yes, it is the close of a chapter — a chapter 
which will never pass from my memory, and which 
has its hero, Mr. Oliver. Good-bye ! I shall 
think well of the whole race of men because of 
you.” 

“ And I shall think well of the whole race of 
women,” he echoed, “ because of you.” 

How plain it all was now to him ! How coldly 
and cruelly clear ! The naked, shuddering soul 
was revealed before him. Mary Caledon’s harmless 
allusion to the girl he was to make happy had 
sent a pang through him which brought an awaken- 
ing self-knowledge with it, as pain so often does. 
He had never before suspected anything of the 
kind ; he had never known that his feeling towards 
Mary Caledon was anything more than that of 
strong and tender friendship. Now it was all 
made clear to him. Now he saw, only too plainly, 
why he had obstinately fought against his own 
gradual discovery of the true nature of his old 
friend, Laurence Caledon. Again and again had 
ho been on the point of admitting the slowly- 
growing conviction of Laurence’s cruel egotism and 


GO AWAY! 


129 


absorbing selfishness. And again and again he 
had driven the thought back, and mentally de- 
nounced himself for wronging his old friend, even 
in thought. Now he knew why all this was so. 
It was only because he could not bear the idea 
of losing the society of Mary Caledon. Oh, perhaps 
even fiction has not yet sounded the deeps of an 
honest and generous man’s capacity for self- 
deception ! If Laurence was really the worthless 
creature whom Roland’s suspicions sometimes 
described him, a parting of the ways must sooner 
or later come; and that would be, for him, a 
parting from Mary Caledon. He found the tears 
coming into his eyes as he thought of her; and 
then, as his momentary impulse was to be ashamed 
of such weakness, he angrily asked himself who 
would not own to tears for such a woman — so 
young, so beautiful, so gifted, so capable of having 
and giving happiness, so misprised, so thrown 
away, so unhappy ? 


CHAPTER VIII. 


Roland’s whim. 

ARY was gone. She would not wait 
while he sent for a cab for her; she 
would not let him come downstairs 
with her. When she had gone the room seemed 
darkened, as a room is darkened when even the 
melancholy sunbeam of a wintry sky is withdrawn. 
In one sense, and one only, he felt relieved. He 
could think more freely now that she had gone; 
he could let his feelings flow. “The close of a 
chapter!” he said to himself over again. “The 
close of a chapter ! And the chapter must remain 
closed — must never, never be reopened.” He 
had got into a false position, and there was nothing 
for him but to get out of it again with the least 
possible hurt or pain to — not to himself, he was 
not thinking of that — but to others. First of 
all, what has to be done ? Well, there are three 
things which have to be done, The real cause 



ROLAND’S WHIM 


131 


of his retreat from the tripartite partnership must 
never be known to Mary. The influence of Mary’s 
appeal over him must never be acknowledged by 
him, at least, to Laurence. Something must be 
done to help Laurence, after he, Boland, had gone, 
in order to enable Laurence thereafter to help 
himself. These were, for the hour, the three 
“ categories” over which the anxious brains of 
poor Boland were busy. It was well for him — 
he felt it even then — that he should have busy 
brains. The throb of their work would drown 
the sound of his beating heart. There was one 
comfort — her last words of frank and friendly 
regard for him showed that she suspected nothing. 

Boland suddenly remembered what Mary had 
said about her husband having gone to the Italian 
Exhibition. He had hardly attached any meaning 
to the words when she spoke them, but now they 
came back to him. “1 may as well go there as 
anywhere else/’ he thought, “ and if I come upon 
him I will tell him at once, and have it over; and,, 
anyhow, it will be something to do.” He felt now, 
more deeply even than Mary could feel it, that he 
must go away. But he was not thinking so much 
even of that as of how he could contrive to do some- 
thing which might bring a little ease and bright- 


132 


BOLAND OLIVER 


ness into Mary Caledon’s life. What could he do ? 
What was there to be done ? 

He kept racking his brain with these questions 
while he wandered dreamily, looking at nothing, 
through ranges of stalls and mountains of soaps and 
spices. He passed without looking in, the door of 
one of the refreshment rooms. But he did not 
pass unseen by a pair inside, a man and a 
woman, and his appearance startled them both as 
much as if it were not an appearance but an 
apparition. 

“ Roland Oliver ! ” Laurence said, below his 
breath, and looking blankly at the crimsoning 
Lydia. “ What the devil can he be doing here ? ” 

“ I would not be seen by him for all the 
world ! ” she said, her lips compressed. " What 
would he say — what would he think ? ” 

“ I don’t see what harm you are doing, or what 
affair it is of his,” Laurence said, angrily, and 
very inconsistently. 

“Stuff! I wish I hadn’t come. Look here; 
I must escape. Yes, please don’t argue ; I must — 
I must ! You run after him.” 

“ Run after him ? ” 

“Yes, of course; that’s the only way. Talk 
to him, Carry him off in some other direction, 


BOLAND’S WHIM 


133 


and give me time to escape. Go — go ! " The 
alarmed Lydia all but bundled poor Laurence out 
of the place. 

So, then, this was what he had spent his day 
and his money for ! He was only a person with 
whom Mrs. Church was ashamed to be seen in 
public ! He never thought of the possibility of 
her having designs of her own upon Roland ; 
designs strictly honourable — distinctly matrimonial. 
He knew so well of Roland's dislike to her that 
it never occurred to him to think that Lydia might 
not know of the dislike, or might not despair 
of being able to cajole or conquer it. Therefore, 
her alarm at the thought of being seen with him 
by Roland appeared to him simply an insult to 
his poverty and his position. All the same, he was 
very glad that Roland had not seen him with her. 

He had not much trouble in overtaking Roland, 
who was wandering on in a “ melancholy, slow” 
sort of way. 

“ I didn't expect to see you here," Laurence said. 

“ No, I am sure you didn’t ; but I came here 
looking for you." 

“ My wife told you I was here ? ” 

“ Yes; she told me you had gone.” 

“I wonder did she tell him anything else?" 


134 


BOLAND OLIVER 


Laurence thought. The mental question was 
quickly answered. 

“ But what a dreary sort of place for you to 
be wandering about all alone in, Laurence. Why 
didn't you let me know ? You're not looking over 
well either." 

Laurence's alarm had brought a little shock 
to his nerves, and he was looking the worse for it. 
Roland gazed at him with sympathy and with 
compassion. “Have I, then, done him no good — 
but only harm — as she says ? " he thought. 

“ I want to talk to you about something," 
Roland said. “ Let’s go and have a cigar and 
a soda-and-brandy somewhere. You know the 
place ; I never was here before — go ahead ! ” 

Laurence led the way to some seats near a 
refreshment bar. Roland produced his cigar-case, 
and the soda-and-brandy soon foamed before them. 
Roland drank his off at a draught — a wholly un- 
wonted performance for him. 

“ I am so thirsty," he said. “ I must positively 
have another." 

“You were going to tell me something, 
Roland ? " 

u I was, old boy — and I am. I’ll begin as soon 
as I have started my cigar and have the new 


BOLAND'S WHIM 


185 


B. and S. beside me. Oh, here we are. Now 
then.” 

Laurence looted at him a little surprised. 
There was a sort of roystering way about him 
to-day to which Laurence was quite unaccustomed. 
He seemed curiously excited. 

“Well, it’s just this — I’m going away.” 

“ Going away ! Where ? ” 

“ That I don’t know. Somewhere out of 
England. Round the world in a yacht I think, 
to begin with.” 

Laurence looked aghast. 

“ Do you mean to be long away ? ” 

“Dear boy, I haven’t the slightest notion — 
yet.” 

“ This is a very sudden resolve, Roland.” 

“ All my resolves are sudden resolves. I feel 
to-day that I ought to be doing something. I 
must — I must ! I have been leading too lazy 
and happy a life of late, and laziness and happi- 
ness are no longer permitted to sinful man. There- 
fore comes my destiny, and claps me on the 
shoulder, and says : ‘ Get up, you sluggard, and 
work ; no more folding of your absurd hands 
to sleep.’ ” 

“ Well, of course,” Laurence said, in faltering 


136 


BOLAND OLIVER 


and hollow tones of the deepest depression ; “ of 
course, if you like it.” 

“ My dear fellow, I don’t like it ! I would much 
rather stay at home with Mary and you. Where 
do you think I shall ever find such jolly good 
friends as Mary and you ? ” 

His manner perplexed Laurence. The very way 
in which he rattled out the words, “ Mary and you,” 
was odd. Laurence had never before heard him 
speak of her as " Mary.” “ It's all stuff what that 
little devil hinted,” he said to himself — the “ little 
devil” being Lydia Church. “He doesn’t care a 
straw about Mary in that way. She couldn’t hold 
him here, even if she were to try.” 

“ Then why, in the name of patience, do you 
go ? ” Laurence asked of his friend, in the tone of 
an injured man. Laurence spoke with the manner 
of one who meant to say : “ Don’t you know the in- 
convenience it will put me to if you go away and 
leave me here ? ” 

"Well, you see, as I said, it is Destiny. I have 
been looking at it — impelled to the inspection, I 
dare say, by Destiny — through two lights : the 
light of mood and the light of principle. My mood 
has changed towards England for the present; it 
will change back again, I dare say, after I go 


BOLAND’S WHIM 


137 


abroad. That’s the mood ; but then comes in the 
principle.” 

Laurence was inclined to say: “ Curse the mood, 
and confound the principle ! ” But he did not 
indulge his inclination. 

“ Well, the principle?” he asked, grimly. 

“The principle comes in this way : I have been 
living a life of idleness, and I have no right to live 
a life of idleness ; it's a sin and a shame. And I 
have been making an idler of you as well. I 
wouldn’t work myself, and I wouldn’t let you work. 
Fact is, I allowed myself to be merely selfish. I 
wanted companionship. I wanted to be amused by 
you and Mary — by you and Mary — and as I was 
idle, I must have you idle too ; and there’s about 
the whole truth of it.” 

Laurence was a very suspicious man, and, like 
most men of that order, very often suspected in the 
wrong place and in the wrong way. He suspected 
now that Roland was, for some reason, playing a 
part. What was the reason? Now, if he could 
only have allowed into his mind one flash of a sus- 
picion that his friend was playing a part for an 
entirely unselfish purpose, he might have got at the 
truth soon enough. But it was not his way to sus- 
pect people of unselfish purposes. 


138 


ROLAND OLIVER 


“Why can’t you turn to and do some work 
here ? ” Laurence argued, sharply. “ What do you 
want to do ? ” 

“ Don’t you see that’s the very thing I have not 
yet got to know ? I want to find out my vocation. 
A man might try a public life — go into Parliament, 
or the County Council even, or lend a helping hand 
in some organised work to improve the condition of 
the poor, or anything. But I can’t think it out 
until I have had something of a change, and so my 
mind is made up. I’ll go away for a while, and 
then I’ll come back, of course, and turn to. Where’s 
my brandy-and-soda ? Oh, yes. Have another, 
Laurence ? You have had only one.” 

|jjfcNo, thanks,” Laurence said, stiffly. “ How 
hapv for to be able to go away, and consult 
yourlfer nominations ! ” he added. 

“ Yel^ ought to be very thankful, I know. But 
I dare say, Laurence, I should have made better way 
in the world if I had to begin without a sixpence, 
and work for my living.” 

“ Rich people talk in that way,” said Laurence, 
with a bitter sneer, “ when they want to reconcile 
poor devils to their poverty. But they can’t do it ; 
they don’t take in the poor devils, and they don’t 
take in themselves. I don’t know why they should 
try, I am sure.” 


ROLAND 7 8 WHIM 


139 


Roland did not seem as if he had been listening 
to these remarks. He went off at a tangent. 

“ Now, look at your wife ! ” he exclaimed. 
“ Look at Mary Caledon ! By Jove, she’s an 
example to you and me ! She’s going in for a lite- 
rary career because she can’t be idle, she says. And 
she has had no practice in literature. But she 
means to stick to it, and work it up, she says ; and 
by Jove, Laurence, that woman will succeed ! ’* 

“ Were you telling my wife about this ? ” 

“ About what ? ” 

“ About your going away.” 

“ Oh, yes; I told her. I let it out somehow. 
She rather scolded me — so far as she can get in 
scolding, which isn’t very far, as you know.” 

“ Scolded you for going ? ” Laurence asked 
with a jarring harshness in his voice. 

“ No ; oh, dear no ; rather approved of that, 
I think. She scolded me for having led such an 
idle life, and done nothing; and she’s right — of 
course she is right. So I fancy she was pleased to 
hear of my resolve ; anyhow, that is what I am 
going to do. So, Laurence,” he jumped up and 
clapped his friend on the shoulder, “ we must have 
some good times before we go. Shan’t we, dear 
boy ? ” 

“ I should think,” Laurence answered with keen 


140 


ROLAND OLIVER 


ill-humour in his voice, “that would be but a 
poor preparation for the life of hard work — of 
downright drudgery, in fact — to which I shall 
have to apply myself after you have gone. But 
of course you will not allow that to affect you in 
any way.” 

Roland’s heart was pierced by the words, and 
the look, and the reproachful voice. He put his 
hand again upon his friend’s shoulder. 

“ Dear old Laurence,” he said, tenderly, “ did 
you really think I was going off to leave you to a 
life of drudgery ? No, you didn't think it. I 
have my whims and my selfish moods, but 1 am 
not like that. Why, that would be only to throw 
you back into bad health again. No, no; I have 
been thinking all the day how it can be best 
arranged for you, so that you should have enough 
to be going on with. Look here, will you talk 
it over with Mary ? ” 

“ Oh, no,” Laurence answered, all too quickly ; 
“ I should not like to do that — at least she would 
not understand.” 

" Perhaps you are right — perhaps I had better ; 
we can think it over meanwhile to ourselves. Any- 
how, I’ll make that all right. And now, wh.it 
about dinner ? When, where, and how shall we 


BOLAND’S WHIM 


141 


dine ; and where shall we go after ? Shall we go 
back for your wife, or would she mind your having 
a bachelor day of it — just for once ? ” 

Laurence felt a little relieved, and was easily 
prevailed upon to go and take part in a very nice 
little dinner, with the champagne delightfully “ on 
ice.” But he had had a terrible shock. At one 
moment it seemed as if the whole of his comfortable 
little world was shattering and crashing about his 
ears. Now he felt encouraged and almost satisfied 
as to his prospects. But in his heart he was bitter 
against Roland. “ He’s tired of us, and that’s why 
he’s going,” he thought to himself. He was glad 
that Roland was going. He could not forgive the 
shock which had been given to his nerves by 
Roland’s abrupt announcement. He could not 
forgive Roland for what he considered his purse- 
proud and patronising ways ; could not forgive 
him for being able to indulge his inclination to 
go abroad ; could not forgive him for being rich ; 
could not forgive him for speaking of Mrs. Caledon 
as " Mary.” “ Does he think we are no better than 
the dust under his feet ? ” he asked of his own soul 
in fierce self-torment. 

Still it was a great relief to him to know that 
he was not to be left uncared for ; even though it 


BOLAND OLIVER 


142 

mado him furious to think that if Roland chose 
he could leave him wholly uncared for. “Why 
the dovil should he be so rich, and I so poor ? " 

Ho went with Roland after dinner to the play, 
all the same. 

What was Roland thinking of at the dinner, 
where he kept up such a display of rattling high 
spirits? Well, he was thinking, for one thing, 
that he had managed well in his way of letting 
out the news to Laurence. He could not help 
letting Laurence know that Mary had spoken to 
him on the subject, for she would tell him that 
herself later on ; but he wanted to minimise as 
much as possible in Laurence's mind the influence 
of Mary's advice. He wanted to forestall Mary, 
and to make it appear that he was determined to 
go away in any case, and that he had, therefore, 
hardly given any serious attention to Mary’s words. 
Roland did not relish even this much of pious 
fraud. He would rather — oh, how much rather ! — 
have been frank, open, and altogether truthful, 
with Mary and with Laurence both. But suppose 
he was to be thus frank, open, and altogether 
truthful, what would it mean? It would mean 
that he must say to Mary : “ I love you ; I am in 
love with you, the wife of my friend; I have 


BOLAND'S WHIM 


143 


acknowledged this to myself, and therefore I must 
go away.” It would mean his saying to Laurence : 
“ Yes, your wife has done all she could to prevail 
on me to go away, and to leave you to work for 
yourself; but it’s not for that I go away; it’s 
because I find I am in love with her, and dare not 
longer stay near her.” 

So absolute truth being out of the question, 
Roland thought he had counterfeited well. He 
felt sure that Mary would have a bad time of it 
if Laurence believed that she had driven him away. 
He had saved her from that, at all events. Laurence 
would think she had talked with Roland about a 
plan on which Roland had already quite made up 
his mind — and that would be all. 

Mary Caledon was sitting with a book in her 
hand when her husband came home from the 
theatre. Very likely she had not been reading. 
She had a good deal to think about — regret, pity, 
doubt, dread — perhaps even some little shadowy 
and flickering hope; and all this would come be- 
tween her and the letter-press on the page. 
She looked up when her husband came in, and 
met him with a welcoming smile. 

“ I have been dining with Roland Oliver,” he 
said; “it was a bad dinner for the place — and 


144 


BOLAND OLIVER 


for the price, I dare say. Then we went to the 
play — a stupid play. Well, the dinners and plays 
are pretty nearly over now.'” 

Mary looked up inquiringly. 

“ Oh, you know,” he said ; “ Roland told you — 
he told me he did. He's going away. He’s tired 
of us — really tired of us at last.” 
u Did he say so, Laurence ? '' 

“ Well, dear, it would be hardly polite to say 
so; now, would it? But he conveyed it — he made it 
pretty clear.” 

“ How did he make it clear ? ” 

" Said it was a whim of his, that he wanted 
change, that it was one of his moods, that he 
couldn't settle to anything until he had some 
variety and some amusement. Then he’s going 
to settle down and do great things — of course ; 
we know all about that. Jove ! how can a man 
be so selfish ? ” 

“ Laurence ! Selfish ? Mr. Oliver ? ” 

“Just so — Mr. Oliver. What could be more 
selfish than his whole way of going on ? Took 
us up when he wanted amusement, drops us down 
when we don’t amuse him any more. Why, what 
did he always lead us to expect ? Not this, surely. 
What is to become of us — what’s to become of me ?” 


ROLAND'S WHIM 


145 


“ But, Laurence, my dear, we could not go on 
for ever living on Mr. Oliver, as if we were paupers. 
When you were ill — oh, then it was different — 
then we could not help ourselves, then one did 
not mind. One took the bounty as one took the 
whole misfortune ; it was all the will of Heaven. 
But now, my dear, you are so much better and 
stronger — and all owing to him, remember — we 
must never forget that — now we must work for 
ourselves, you and I ; and we will, we will.” 

She laid her hands on his shoulders while she 
thus pleaded in her earnest, pathetic way. She 
tried to look into his eyes as if to find there the 
light of that better nature that must be in him. 
But he kept turning his head restlessly away 
from her, and his manner showed an irritation 
that was not to be soothed by her. After a 
moment he shook himself loose, not roughly, but 
resolutely. 

“ He might have given me some notice of his 
intention — so little time to turn round ! Instead 
of that he springs it on me. What am I to do? 
I haven't any money to be going on with; you 
haven't any. He talks in his patronising, lordly 
way of doing something for me; but of course 
he'll forget all about it. Oh, I know him now; 

& 


146 


ROLAND OLIVER 


I didn’t before. Fancy — he throws us off and 
leaves us to starve, perhaps — just to gratify a 
sudden whim ! Was there ever anything so horribly 
and hideously selfish ? ” 

“But why do you think it is to gratify a 
whim ? ” 

“ Because he told me so — at least he implied it 
— again and again.” 

The truth shone in on Mary. “ He has done 
that to screen me— -to save me.” She knew it. 

“Laurence,” she said, very gravely, “I cannot 
allow Mr. Oliver to calumniate himself, no matter 
how generous his motives may be. He is not a 
creature of whims, and this is not a whim. He's 
going away because I begged and besought him 
to go.” 

“You begged and besought him to go ? ” 

“ Yes, I did ; because he’s doing himself no 
good, and us much harm. I see you sinking 
down to be a mere dependent, and yet I see 
you every day growing more and more suspicious 
of the very man whose bounty we are living on. 
Such words have passed between us — I mean 
between you and me — as never were exchanged 
between us before. Last night was the climax; 
I could endure it no more. I did not think it 


BOLAND’S WHIM 


147 


right for the sake of our lives, our future, our 
peace, our souls, that such things should ever be 
said and listened to again, and I went to him and 
begged him to leave us to ourselves — and to our 
fate.” 

She was trembling with emotion. He looked at 
her contemptuously. 

“ How like a woman’s vanity,” he said. “I 
am sorry to disturb the gratification of that belief 
in your power to do harm to your husband, and 
to drive his friends away from him. I don’t 
doubt your will, my dear ; I only question your 
power. Roland Oliver did not care twopence 
what you said; he hardly seemed to remember what 
you said ; it passed in through one ear and out 
through the other. No, no ; it’s all plain enough. 
He’s tired of us ; he wants to be rid of us ; he 
takes a whim for going abroad ; and so — off he 
goes.” 

Thus Laurence settled the matter, and he 
chuckled scornfully over her supposed discomfiture. 


CHAPTER IX. 


GOADING HIM ON. 

EXT morning Mrs. Church found herself 
tingling with curiosity to know wh.eth.er 
Laurence had caught up with Roland at 
the Exhibition, and what had passed between them, 
and whether Roland had any suspicion of her 
propinquity. She was afraid she had not behaved 
very well to poor Laurence. “ But what could I 
do? ” she put it to earth, air, and skies to tell her. 
“1 couldn't let Roland find me there with him,” All 
she was now afraid of was, that Laurence would have 
told Roland out of sheer spite and anger to vex 
her, and she felt that she must conciliate him a 
little ; and she could not help exploding into small, 
sudden bursts of laughter at tho recollection of his 
white, astonished, wrathful face, when she sent him 
packing after Roland. Yes — sho must certainly 
soothe and conciliate him a little — always supposing 
he had not told any tales about her. So she sent 



GOADING HIM ON 


149 


up a dainty little note to him by the hands of Cora, 
and the note said, “ Do please come down to me. 

I want to see you. — L. C.” 

Then Mrs. Church touched herself up at her 
looking-glass, and prepared to receive her visitor. 
The visitor looked sullen and glum. 

“ My dear Mr. Caledon, I know you are angry 
with me — and I know I was very abrupt. But I 
couldn't help it. I couldn’t. I don't know what 
he would have said of me — or what people would 
have said of me. Why wasn't Mrs. Caledon there? 
people would ask — now wouldn't they ? " 

“ Why didn't you think of all that before ? " he 
asked, still unmollified. 

“ I know, I know — I ought to have ; but I 
didn’t think of it, and, of course, I was glad to 
go. Oh, there wasn't the least harm in the world 
in it, only he was always so particular, and people 
will talk so ; and, you see, we are both of us young, 
and you are a married man, and evil tongues might 
make scandal out of it. How's your wife ? ” 

“ Oh, she's all right.” 

“ She didn't mind ? " 

“ Didn't mind what ? " 

“ Our going off to the Exhibition together in 
that way.” 


150 


BOLAND OLIVER 


“ Oli — she ? Not the least little bit in the 
world.” 

This was decidedly disappointing. Lydia had 
hoped to hear of domestic trouble and of jealous 
tears. She was annoyed ; she regarded it as a 
slight to her. 

“ Had he any suspicion about me — Roland 
Oliver ? ” 

“No — not the least. He wasn’t thinking about 
anything of the kind. He could talk of nothing 
but his whim of going away.” 

“ Going away ? Where — when — why ? ” 

“ I don’t know where — at once. I don’t know 
why — whim, he told me.” 

“ Do you believe that ? ” 

“ I do — why not ? Though I must say my wife 
doesn’t.” 

“I should say not — T dare say, she has better 
reasons to know than you have.” 

This little thrust brought spots of angry red on 
his cheeks, whereat Lydia was pleased. 

“What does jour wife say about it?” 

“Well, my wife, if you want to know, 3ays that 
she strongly urged him to go away.” 

If Laurence had been a less self-centred, and 
more observant man, he might havo been startled 


GOADING HIM ON 


151 


and shocked at the expression of rage, and hate, 
which showed itself for a moment in Lydia Church’s 
eyes. 

“ Your wife sent him away ? ” the little lady 
exclaimed. 

“ I didn’t say that ; she asked him to go 
away,” he answered, sullenly. “I can’t think 
what possessed her.” 

“ Stuff,” Mrs. Church said, contemptuously, 
“ You must know something about it. He told 
you, or she told you, something. Out with it — let 
us have it.” 

“ She told me that she asked him not to come 
here any more, and to go away. I did not ask her 
why ; I guessed.” 

“ What did you guess ? ” 

“Oh, well, we have had quarrels about him. 
She entirely mistook some little hints I gave her — 
about making herself more agreeable to him; I 
wanted him to be pleasantly received and made 
happy, for he was so very good to us; but she 
mistook my meaning and she flew out in a passion.” 

Mrs. Church broke into a scornful little laugh. 

"And you really believe that was the reason 
why she sent him away ? You really believe 
that ? " 


152 


BOLAND OLIVER 


“ Yes ; I am certain of it.” 

“ Did it never occur to you that to do such a 
thing as that would only bring on a woman the 
very scandal she was wishing to avoid? Did it 
never occur to you that a woman would be afraid 
of being misunderstood by a man ? Might not 
‘ Go away, please, for I am afraid you will make 
love to me/ sound to some men like * Stay, please, 
and be good enough to make love to me ’ ? 33 

Laurence’s face grew dark. 

“It would with some women,” he began. 

“ It certainly would with me,” she said, with a 
little laugh. 

“But not with a woman like her. You don’t 
understand her. I don’t suppose you could.” 

“Oh, no; of course not; she is one of your 
angelic order of beings ; we ordinary women must 
not presume to think ourselves capable of under- 
standing her. All the same, I do understand her; 
I read her like an open book. Shall I tell you 
what I read ? ” 

“It you please,” he said, harshly. 

“ It won’t please you to hear it, I fancy.” 

“ Go on,” he growled. “ Don’t mind about me.” 

“Well, it’s this; ’twas not about him she was 
afraid, but about herself.” 


GOADING HIM ON 


153 


"What do you mean by that? I don’t under- 
stand in the least what you are driving at.” 

"How very dull you are. Did I not say that 
she was afraid of herself ? Is not that plain ? You 
fool, she found that she was over head and ears in 
love with the young man, and that's why she sent 
him away.” 

He leaped from his chair with an oath. 

“ If that was true,” he cried, “ if I thought 
that was true, I would have her life.” 

“ Bless the man, what a rage he is in now ! and 
all for what ? Because his wife is so good a 
woman that she sends her lover off to the other end 
of the earth in order to put herself out of the way 
of temptation ! Why, my dear Mr. Caledon, don't 
you see that you have a model wife ; a champion 
virtuous woman ? I am not at all quite sure that 
if I had been in her case I should have been 
heroine enough to act on such a resolve.” 

" The very thought of it is enough to drive 

h 

a man mad.” 

“ The thought of your wife being so good ? ” 

“ The thought of her being in love with him.” 

“ Oh, come ; there is nothing very surprising 
in that. He’s a very good fellow, and very attrac- 
tiv©o I was in love with him once. You see 


154 


BOLAND OLIVER 


he made a kind of idol and divinity of her — and 
you — well, you didn’t. You were not always very 
nice to her ; and you were always sickly, and 

complaining, and grumbling ” 

“You mean to tell me that she got tired of 
me ” 

“ Why, of course she did : tired and sick of 
you. I wonder she didn’t get tired and sick 
of you long ago. But she’s a woman to do the 
right thing — that you may be sure of; and now 
that she has packed him off, and finds herself 
out of danger, you may be sure she will stand 
by you and do her duty as a wife, and a British 
matron, and that sort of thing. Oh, yes ; that 
I will say for her.” 

" I will ask her ! I will put it to her ! I 

will have an answer from her ” 

“Well, and suppose she answers honestly, and 
says my idea is right — what then ? ” 

“ Then I shall let her know what she has done. 
She has robbed me of the only friend I have 
in life; a friend who was so useful to me. I shall 
have to starve now that I have lost him. She 
drove him from me, and all because sho dared 
to fall in love with him. Hang it all,” ho ex- 
claimed, savagely, “ if she must fall in love with 
him, couldn’t she keep it to herself?” 


GOADING HIM ON 


155 


“ Exactly; and then he need not have gone 
away, and things would be satisfactory and com- 
fortable all round.” 

He looked up at her fiercely. He thought 
there was a mocking meaning in her words; as, 
indeed, there was, but she did not want to make 
it quite too plainly apparent. So when he looked 
at her he saw that her face was quite com- 
posed, meditative, even sympathetic. He turned 
away. 

“ You had better say nothing about it,” Lydia 
said. “ Let bygones be bygones, and start clear. 
The thing is done and can’t be helped. She has 
sent him away ; you can't bring him back.” 

“ Why not ? Why can’t I bring him back ? 55 

“ Because he won’t come. You may be sure 
she has pledged him to that, and has given him 
some good reason to believe that it is better for 
her he should go away and stay away. She has 
probably told him how she feels about him ; that 
would give him some comfort, you know,” Lydia 
added, coolly. 

Laurence was writhing with agony. He was 
jealous in the most morbidly-sensitive way. It 
was not the sort of oriental physical jealousy of 
many men, which is allayed by the knowledge 
that no wrong has been done. It was the jealousy 


156 


ROLAND OLIVER 


of egotism, of self-love, of mortified pride. It was 
enough for him to believe that his wife had ever 
thought of any one but him with love ; that she 
had ever allowed any other man to find a place 
in her heart ; that she had found it well another 
man should go away lest she should come to love 
him too much for her own peace of mind. He 
thought nothing of the virtue, of the high purpose, 
of the resolute purity ; he felt only the pangs of 
his own hurt self-love. 

Lydia saw his torture and enjoyed it. But she 
had much more serious purpose in hand than the 
mere torturing of unfortunate Caledon. She 
wanted to have a complete and final break-off 
between Roland and Mary. She blamed Mary 
for everything, and felt sure she never should 
be able to get Roland to marry her while Mary’s 
influence was over him. Her great chance, she 
thought now, was to work on Caledon’s jealousy, 
and compel him to keep his wife out of Roland’s 
sight. If Mary could only be taken away some- 
where quickly, then, perhaps, Roland might remain 
in London, and she, Lydia, might take his heart on 
the rebound. Therefore, having established a flaw 
on the sensitive skin of Laurence’s self-love, she 
kept switching the sore place constantly and smartly. 


GOADING HIM ON 


157 


Laurence wandered about streets, and cafes, 
and drinking-bars, all that night, and did not 
return home until the raw morning. Mary heard 
him stumbling and cursing about the sibting-room, 
trying for a lamp, trying to light it with a match, 
trying to get his boots off. This was a new and 
a ghastly experience for her. Even in Constanti- 
nople, when he got into money-troubles by his 
gambling, and she had only saved him from 
expulsion from the court of law and the clftb, and 
probable prosecution, by selling most of her 
annuity, and pleading and praying for him, and 
pledging herself to take him out of Constantinople 
for ever — even then she had not known him to 
get drunk. About six in the morning she stole 
softly to his bedroom, which was only divided 
from the sitting-room by curtains, and she looked 
in. The sun was streaming in through the 
windows, the blinds were not drawn down, and 
there was the lamp still burning, and there was 
Laurence on the bed, dishevelled, indeed, but 
fully dressed, asleep and snoring. 

She put out the lamp quietly, and then crept 
away. Her last hope of his restoration to better 
things would be, she felt, in allowing him to believe 
that she had not seen him in his drunken sleep. 


CHAPTER X. 


THE ORDEAL. 

ARY went out early that day. She 
wanted to buy some trifling things, 
but sbe wanted also to be out of the 
way while Laurence was getting up and trying to 
pull himself together. She left a message for him, 
saying she would be back before long ; but when 
she came back he had gone. He had, perhaps, only 
gone down to Mrs. Church's rooms, Annie said. 
Mrs. Church’s maid had brought a note. 

Laurence had, in fact, gone to Mrs. Church's 
rooms. He had been summoned by her in order 
that she might implore him not to say anything to 
his wife ; to assure him that it would be a great 
mistake to let people know that he believed he had 
cause for jealousy ; that people only laughed at a 
husband who proclaimed his jealousy; that such 
things were always best kept quiet ; that, with a 
woman of Mrs. Caledon's character, no actual harm 
could happen — oh, no ; she was quite sure of that — 
and that, anyhow, it was all over now, and Roland 
was going away. Thus she switched the raw with 



THE ORDEAL 


159 


nettles, and drove the wretched Caledon nearly 
mad. And all the time his head was racked with 
the effects of his unwonted debauch. He left her in 
a burst of passion. 

Mary waited and waited through all that long, 
sad summer day. She was sorry now she had not 
remained indoors in the morning and had some 
speech of him before he went out. She would have 
tried to speak to him sympathetically and tenderly. 
She had saved him by affection once before ; she 
might save him by affection once again even yet. 
No matter how long she lives, she will not forget 
that day. 

Laurence came in about nine o’clock in the 
evening. He was sober, there could be no doubt 
about that; but he looked wild and ghastly. He 
repelled her approaches. 

“ Did you know that I came home drunk this 
morning — and do you know why ? ” He did not 
wait for her answer. u It was because I was driven 
half mad by what people say about you and Roland 
Oliver.” 

“ Laurence ! ” She rose to her feet. " I'll not 
listen to you.” 

“ Are you in love with him ? ” Caledon ex- 
claimed, and he clutched her arm. 

“ Oh, for shame ! ” 


160 


BOLAND OLIVER 


ee Did you tell him you were in love with him ? ” 
“ The question is an insult — an outrage ! ” 

“ Answer it all the same.’* 

His fury taught her the need of self-control. 

“ I never did, Laurence,” she answered, quietly. 
“ You are changed indeed to me when you could 
think of such a thing.” Then she was turning 
away in tears of grief, and pain, and shame. 

“I must have this settled one way or the 
other / 5 he said; “and I will have it settled here, 
and now. I 5 ve been tormenting myself all day 
thinking this out, and now I see my way. Come in 
here.” He raised the curtains and motioned for her 
to pass into his bedroom — a room which he also 
used as a study. She obeyed in silence. He 
followed her in and let fall the curtain. 

“ Sit down and write to him — now, at once.” 
€< Write what to him ? 55 

“ What I shall tell you. See — sit there.” He 
pushed her towards the seat in front of his little 
desk. She looked at him with pathetically inquiring 
eyes. She was not afraid — at least, she was not 
afraid for herself — afraid of any act of violence; 
but she had a terrible thought that his reason was 
giving way. In any case, there was no good to be 
jjot by refusing to do what he wished. She sat at 
the desk, and took up a sheet of paper and a pen. 


TEE ORDEAL 


161 


and waited. Her hand did not tremble, but she felt 
chill and wretched. 

“My dear Mr. Oliver ” Laurence began. 

“ No, that won’t do. People on such friendly terms 
don’t ‘ Dear Mister ’ and ‘ Dear Madam ’ each other, 
do they ? ” 

“ I don’t understand you, Laurence.” 

“ What do you say when you write to him ? ” 

“I have never written to him but once — that 
first letter — you know of it. Oh, how I wish I had 
never written it ! ” 

“Yes, it was the beginning of trouble for you,” 
he said, with a sneer. “ When will the end of the 
trouble come, I wonder, and what will it be? Well, 
when you wrote that letter, how did you address 
him ? ” 

“ I did not address him. I simply wrote what 
1 had to say.” 

“ Very good. Then don’t address him now, but 
simply write what I have to make you say.” 

“ I will do as you wish, Laurence.” 

“ So kind of you ! Thank you ever so much ! 
Well, write this: 'I must see you before you go. 
Come as soon after you get this as you can. I shall 
wait until you come, and Laurence will be out.’ ” 

She flung down the pen. 

" I’ll not write that,” she said, resolutely. / 


162 


BOLAND OLIVER 


“ You shall write as I tell you.” 

“ No ; never ! I'll not write that. Not if you 
were to strike me ! Not if you were to stab me ! 
Not if you were to kill me ! ” 

“ But, for aught you know, I shall be out.” 

“That doesn’t matter. That isn't the question ; 
you know it isn't. I wonder that you could be so 
foolish, too. Do you really want Mr. Oliver to 
come here at once ? ” 

“Very much indeed. A good deal depends on 
it, I can tell you. A good deal depends on it.” 

“Well, then,” she said, composedly, “if 1 were 
to write that, he would not come.” 

“ No ! Why not, pray ? " 

* Because he would know either that it was 
not written by me, or that it was written by me 
under compulsion. Mr. Oliver is a man of honour, 
and he knows that I am an honourable woman.” 

“By Jove, I believe you are right about leaving 
out that clause! ” he said. “ It might put him ou 
his guard. See what it is to be a woman, and to 
understand these things ! About the man of honour, 
and so forth, we shall see presently. We'll leave 
that out ; the rest will do. Now sign the letter. 
How do you sign yourself to him — f Mary ? ' ” 

“ I sign myself to him as I sign myself to 
e.^y one — ‘Mary Caledon.’” 


THE OEDEAL 


163 


With a firm hand she wrote the name. Her 
natural courage was coming back to her aid. 

“ Now/' he said, “ call Annie, and let her take 
that at once to Roland Oliver. Send her in a 
hansom. Never mind about the eighteenpence ; 
perhaps we shall not miss it." 

Mary rang the bell, and gave the letter, the 
directions, and the money to the little maid, who 
was so bewildered by the unexpected lavishness 
in the matter of the hansom cab, that, as she 
would herself have put it, she did not know 
whether she was on her head or her heels. 

“Now, Laurence," Mary said, quietly, when the 
girl had left them, “ I have done what you wished 
me to do. Will you tell me what you mean by 
all this, and why you want to bring Mr. Olivef 
here in this odd and roundabout way ? ” 

“ Oh, yes. I mean to tell you all the why and the 
wherefore. Listen ! I am determined, at any cost, to 
find out whether you are speaking the truth or not.” 

The flush of anger came into her face. 

“You are my husband," she said, bitterly, “ and 
are privileged to insult me." 

“ I am your husband, and am privileged to find, 
out whether you are playing me fair or playing 
me false. Well, I am determined to find it out 
and be certain, at any cost. I'll not pass such 

l 2 


m 


BOLAND OLIVER 


another night as last night again ; it would be better 
to be in the infernal regions. So I'll make certain. 
When he comes I'll keep behind this curtain, close 
to whore jou are sitting. I'll pnt your chair in the 
right place. I shall watch his face and your face 
as he comes in. I shall hear every word that he 
says to you, and that you say to him. If I find 
that you attempt to put him on his guard by the 
slightest glance, or sign, or sound, I shall know 
that you have something to conceal, and I shall 
believe the worst. Now you understand ? ” 

Then in her heart there went out the last 
lingering, flickering ray of love for him, or trust 
in him, or hope for him. A moment before, and 
she was fearing that he was losing his reason ; 
now it would be a relief if she could think that 
he had lost it ; that her husband was only a 
madman, and not an unbelieving and treacherous 
wretch. But, no ; there he stood — cold, cruel, 
chuckling softly over his own cleverness and his 
own artifice. She was no longer alarmed ; she 
could only feel contempt. 

“ So,” she said, “ you are laying this trap for 
the best benefactor a man ever had ; for the 
kindest and truest friend you ever had ! ” 

“ Trap ! Where's the trap ? My friend is 
innocent. You are innocent, I am only giving 


THE ORDEAL 


IGi 

him and you an opportunity of showing that you 
are innocent. Traps are set for the guilty.” 

“ What’s to come of this ordeal — this test ? ” 
she asked, scornfully. 

“ If I find out that things are all right, then 
I shall be satisfied, and shall not suspect any more, 
and we shall be happy once again.” 

“ No,” Mary said ; “ that can never be.” 

“ Oh, yes ! Why not ? You ought to be very 
happy to be so readily cleared.” 

“ And look with love and trust again to the 
husband by whom I was so readily suspected? 
Oh, no ! Try your test, if you will ; but you must 
accept the consequences.” 

“ I’m not afraid. What have I to lose ? ” 

“ A wife’s love and a wife’s trust ; if you have 
not, indeed, lost both already.” 

There was silence for a moment. 

“ You have not asked me,” he said, “ what is to 
happen in the other event ! ” 

“ In what other event ? ” 

“ Well, of course, in the event of my having to 
come to the conclusion that my suspicions were 
not unfouuded.” 

The pink light flashed up behind the alabaster 
for a moment, and then went out. Mary turned 
from him. 


166 


ROLAND OLIVER 


“No,” she said; “I have not asked, and I 
don’t want to hear. That supposition could have 
no possible interest for me.” 

She was raising the curtain, and about to pass 
into the little sitting-room. 

“ Stop a moment,” he said, roughly. “ I am 
going with you. I only want to put the lamp 
out. Here, behind the curtain, it must be dark, 
you know. Now, then, let us go. I don’t want 
to let you out of my sight, out of reach of my 
touch, for one single second until we have gone 
through with this. If you are to be cleared, you 
must be thoroughly cleared, and not a loophole 
left on which to hang a doubt about underhand 
communication, don’t you know ? Putting sus- 
pected persons on their guard, don’t you know ? 
Such things have been done — and very cleverly 
done — by women before now, I am told.” 

Oh, how she despised him ! Oh, how could 
she ever have loved him and trusted him ! How 
could she ever, in those past days, have so com- 
pletely forgiven him, and put him back again in 
his place within her heart! Now she saw how 
futile was all hope for such a nature. Yet in the 
cloud, the cruel darkness of the present crisis, she 
began to see her own way. 

“Very well,” she said. “I shall only sit here 


THE ORDEAL 


1(57 


and read.” They were now in the little sitting- 
room. “ You can watch all my movements.” 

“ Perhaps you would not mind reading some- 
thing aloud ? We may have to wait some time.” 

“ Very well. What do you wish me to read ? ” 

“Read me,” he said, with insulting emphasis, 
“ that passage from Hamlet in which he tells how 
he means to catch the conscience of the king. I'll 
find you the volume.” 

He gave her the book ; she opened, it and found 
the place. He stretched himself back in his ch air, 
with his hands clasped behind his head, and he 
riveted his eyes upon her face. His expression was 
as that of a tyrant watching the torture of some 
victim from whom a confession was to be extorted. 
She felt the rigid, cruel, inquisitorial gaze become 
almost insupportable. But she would not betray 
the slightest emotion. She read on and on, not 
heeding what she read. 

Suddenly their door-bell rang, and she started, 
but quickly recovered herself. It was a low, timid, 
unassertive sort of a peal, and she felt sure it was 
not Roland’s. 

“ I see you started,” Laurence said, with a 
triumphant smile; “are you getting frightened at 
the thought of the ordeal being so near ? ” 

“I have nothing to fear in the ordeal,” she 


168 


BOLAND OLIVER 


said. “ And that's not Mr. Oliver ; this must be 
Annie." 

“ So you know the very sound of his ring ? " 

“ A visitor never rings like that/’ was her quiet 
answer. 

Laurence reflected for a moment. The door 
must be opened by him or by her. There was 
no one else who would think of opening it. If 
Mary went down, she might give some secret 
instructions to Annie — if it was Annie — and fore- 
warn Roland, if it should prove to be Roland. 
If, carrying out his threat not to take his eyes 
off her until after the ordeal, he was to make 
her come down with him, and it should prove to 
be Roland, or Roland should dash up in a hansom 
while the door was still open, the whole game 
would be up. He stood irresolute for a moment, 
and now it was Mary’s turn to watch his face. 
She knew perfectly well the difficulty which was 
perplexing him, and in her utter contempt for 
him there was mixed up a kind of pity. 

The timid, unassertive peal was repeated, per- 
haps half a tone louder this time. 

His mind was made up. “ I’ll go,” he said ; 
“you stay there.” 

So he went and presently came back again. 

“It's Annie ; and I have told her that the moment 


THE ORDEAL 


169 


Mr. Oliver comes he is to be shown np here to you. 
He was not in when she got to his place, but was 
expected soon. I told her I should very likely be 
out, and I have left my hat and umbrella in the 
other room, where she won't see them. Now, then, 
Mrs. Caledon, let me feel your pulse — I am curious 
about your state of mind." 

A malignant gleam was in his keen, suspicious 
eyes as he went towards her. “ Heaven give 
strength to my nerves," was her inward prayer. 
He took her wrist and felt her pulse carefully. 
Its beat was steady, calm, and strong. She could 
hear the quick, irregular throb of his. He dropped 
her hand, almost threw it from him. 

“ There's nothing in that. I have often heard," 
he said, “ innocence sometimes shakes with nervous 
fear, and guilt has the nerves of a blacksmith." 

Suddenly a long, loud, rattling peal of the bell 
was heard — the ring of an anxious comer eager to 
be let in. 

“ Here he is ! " Laurence exclaimed. “ Now, 
Mrs. Caledon, we shall know all. You just sit 
there, and don't move when he comes in ; let him 
get quite near to you, so that I may see your face 
and his. Remember ! " 

“ I shall remember all this," she said. The 
thought came into her mind : “ How should I feel 


170 


ROLAND OLIVER 


at such a moment, with such a trial before me, if 
I had anything to be found out ? ” Now she was 
absolutely without fear. 

Laurence had made his arrangements very 
cunningly. He set her chair far back in the room 
on one side of the hearth, where now, of course, no 
fire was burning. The bedroom, which was also 
his study, was originally used as a back drawing- 
room, divided from the front room by folding- 
doors; Laurence had the folding-doors removed, 
and their place taken by the more artistic curtains. 
The wall on either side of the doorway had gone 
out a little to receive the folding-doors, and now 
received the curtains. Mary’s chair was set close 
to the curtain at the end of the room farthest from 
the door by which visitors came in. Laurence had 
ensconced himself close by in the corner of the 
study, with the last fold of the curtain just in front 
of him. He could hear every word spoken to or by 
Mary; he could, at any convenient moment, peer 
unseen through by moving the curtains ever so 
slightly, so as to give himself a glimpse of the 
faces that were so near to his own. 

Mary could not forbear from one little thrust at 
her craven husband. 

“ Laurence ! 33 She leaned back. 


TEE ORDEAL 


171 


“ Yes, yes ; what is it ? ” he asked, in an angry 
whisper. 

“ If you let your heart beat like that, he must 
know that you are there.” 

He growled, and then was silent. But she knew 
he was pressing his hands upon his heart. 

“Mr. Oliver, ma’am,” said Annie, opening the 
door of the sitting-room ; and Roland entered, 
anxious, breathless, impatient, full of life, and 
energy, and sympathy. Oh, what a contrast! 

“ My dear Mrs. Caledon, so sorry I was out 
when your maid came ; but I rushed here the 
moment I got your little letter. No bad news 
of Laurence, I hope ? He isn’t unwell ? 99 

“ No, Mr. Oliver, he’s not unwell.” 

“ Oh, well, then ; that’s all right. I am always 
so much afraid of the poor, dear boy having some 
sort of a relapse; although Dr. Robson Roose — 
who has tefken, really, no end of pains with him — 
tells me there is positively nothing wrong with him 
anywhere.” 

“ Laurence owes so much to you,” she said. 

“Not a bit of it. He would have done just the 
same for me if I wanted it, and it were within his 
power. I know Laurence. Well, you wanted to talk 
to me about him, that was why you sent for me ? ” 


172 


BOLAND OLIVER 


:c Yes ; it was because of him that I sent for 
you.” 

“ All right. He is out, I suppose ? The maid 
told me ho was.” 

'Mary said nothing. No doubt he took her 
silence for acquiescence, and so he went on. 

“I am very glad he is not here. I couldn’t 
talk before him ; he wouldn’t like it. I want to 
tell you frankly — you, the one who loves him best 
in the world — I want to tell you what I propose to 
do for him. Some things I propose will require 
his consent and yours. One thing, at least, I can do 
in defiance of both of you. In fact, I have done 
it. I have made him and you joint heirs to the 
greater part of whatever property I possess.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Oliver, no, no ! ” 

“ Why, I’ve done it,” he said, with a smile, “ and 
neither he, nor you, nor you and he together can 
undo it. But then, you see, it really doesn’t 
amount to much after all ; for I shall probably 
live to be eighty years old. Still, as I am going to 
do a bit of travel, and, probably, even a bit of explor- 
ing, and one never can tell what may happen, I 
thought I should feel more easy in my mind if I 
knew before anything did happen that the bulk of 
what I had would go to my two dear friends, 
and not to Mr. Chancellor of the Exchequer.” 


TEE ORDEAL 


173 


Mary could have almost felt it in her heart to 
be sorry for Laurence, who had to hear all this. 

“Mr. Oliver,” she said earnestly, “ my prayer 
to Heaven shall be that I, at least, may never come 
in for this bequest; but you have my heart-felt 
gratitude all the same.” 

“Well, that’s settled. That is plain sailing. 
Now we come to what’s not quite so plain, but 
what can be made quite easy and satisfactory to 
every one, if you and Laurence will only be reason- 
able and agree.” 

“Tell me,” was all she said. Her heart was 
now beginning to beat pretty loudly. 

“ This is my idea. Of course I couldn’t go away 
and leave poor Laurence to fight it out for himself 
unaided. He isn’t even yet nearly well enough and 
strong enough for that. You see that, don’t you ? ” 

“ Yes, I see that.” 

“ Well, I know that he wants to be independent, 
and you want him to be 'independent, and so do I, 
Mrs. Caledon — so do I. I don’t want my old friend 
to feel too much under obligation to any human 
creature — even myself. I have been thinking all 
that over, and here is my idea. I propose that I shall 
advance Laurence a trifle of money — a few hundreds 
— just by way of a loan, with the regular amount 
of interest attached j and the interest only, not the 


174 


BOLAND OLIVER 


principal, to be repaid for the next three years, 

unless Do you understand all this ? 99 

“ Oh, yes, I think so. Unless ? 99 

“ Unless Laurence in the meantime should be 
in c. position and should wish to repay it. Now 
these are my ideas, and I want you to put them 
to Laurence in the most favourable way you can. 
For you see it is all very well to say that it is 
good for a man to be compelled to work hard. 
So it is, for a man who's strong and indolent; 
but Laurence is neither. It would have been 
good for me, I dare say ; but it would only make 
him break down altogether, and, by Jove, Mrs. 
Caledon, while you and I are to the front we’ll 
not let him break down." 

Mary felt very like breaking down herself. 

“ I’ll tell Laurence/’ she began, and then found 
it hard to get on. 

“ Yes, tell him, and put it to him nicely. You 
ooe, something of the kind must be done. I am 
delighted to find that you receive my idea so 
favourably on the whole. Well, I haven't much 
more to say. Oh, yes, I want to say that we 
must have a bright little dinner together, you 
and he and I, before I go, and that we must be 
awfully happy, and drink a parting toast to our 
next merry meeting, and then throw the glasses 


TEE ORDEAL 


175 


over our shoulders, so that they may never be 
profaned by any other toast.” 

“ When are you going ? ” she asked, in a voice 
that trembled a little. 

“ As soon as I can ; the day after that dinner- 
party. Let Laurence fix it.” 

“ Where are you going ? ” 

“ Egypt, to begin with. I don’t know where 
from that.” 

“ But you will not be very long away ? ” 

“ Oh, no ; not very long. The time will seem 
nothing in passing. I shall be back again before 
you have time to miss me. By the way, another thing 
I wanted to speak about. You ought to get iuto other 
rooms, not in this crowded place, in some quarter 
where you could have a breath of air ; and tell 
Laurence from me, in case I shouldn’t have an 
opportunity, that I wouldn’t have much to say to 
that little woman below — Lydia Church.” 

“ I confess I don’t much like her,” Mary said. 

“ Oh, no; I know her. She is a selfish little 
woman, and a treacherous little woman, and a menda- 
cious little woman. Why, she began to tell me things 
about Laurence himself, of which I didn’t believe one 
single word, and I told her so, pretty plainly, and I 
wouldn’t let her go on. Stop — is not that some noise 
in the other room, behind the curtain ? ” 


176 


BOLAND OLIVER 


Mary certainly thought she had heard a noise 
as of shuffling or creeping. But it will be readily 
understood that she was not inclined to allow 
Roland to turn his attention in that direction, 
and so she answered a little abruptly that there 
could be nothing — that it was of no consequence. 

“Well, I think I have said all I want to say. 
Is there anything you want to say to me, Mrs. 
Caledon ? ” 

“ No ; except that I am grateful, and that I 
believe you are the truest friend a man ever had 
— or a woman either ! ” 

“ Thank you/’ he said, and he took her hand. 
“Good night.” Perhaps if he had not been in 
love with her, if he had not known that he was 
in love with her, he would have raised her hand 
to his lips ; as it was, he simply took it in his, 
released it, and went his way. 

Mary remained in her chair, silent, half-stupefied. 
Then she roused herself, and without looking round 
called : “ Laurence ! ” 

There was no answer. 

° Laurence ! ” she called again, almost sharply 
this second time. Still there was no answer. 

She sprang up and threw back the ourtain. 
She could see no one. Then she took the lamp 
from the sitting-room table and passed between 


THE ORDEAL 


177 


the curtains, her heart seeming to stand still with 
the fear that she was about to see some shocking 
sight. No — there was nothing; Laurence was not 
there; his hat and umbrella were not there. 

She rang the bell and questioned the maid. 
Yes, Mr. Caledon had gone out only a few minutes 
before Mr. Oliver went. Annie had thought Mr. 
Caledon was out all the time, she said ; and was 
surprised when she saw him going down the stairs. 

Mary’s heart was full to overflowing, but the 
sudden alarm about Laurence checked the overflow. 
She soon, however, settled herself down to the 
conviction that to-night was to be a repetition of 
last night, and that, stricken with shame and 
remorse, Laurence would wander about the streets, 
and perhaps drink, and come home late. Sad and 
dreary prospect if the nights were often to be like 
that. But even from this dismal questioning her 
mind went back to the dear, dearest friend, whose 
deep, sweet, sympathetic voice seemed to be still 
sounding in her ear; the friend who was going into 
exile because she asked him to go — for her sake — and 
she thought how happy beyond all women will be 
the one woman he will love and marry, and she 
prayed to God to bless them both. “ And, oh ! He 
will bless them,” she said; and then her heart 
overflowed, and there came a rush of tears. 


CHAPTER XI. 


LIFE AND DEATH. 

HEN Roland left the house in Agar 
Street, he wandered down Whitehall 
and Parliament Street, and then turned 
off to the Embankment. The light was burning 
over the Clock Tower in Westminster Palace, the 
House of Commons was sitting. Roland had never 
been anything of a politician ; but now for the 
moment it occurred to him that it must be a great 
thing to merge one’s interests, to lose one’s indi- 
viduality in the grand struggle for some political 
cause in which one had faith, and hope; even to 
lose one’s personal yearnings and disappointments 
in the mere strife of party. For indeed the poor 
youth felt much at odds with fortune now. He 
had been hit hard — very hard — and he could not 
tell of his wound — could not have the sympathy 
of any one — could not even admit that he had been 
wounded. His trouble was so hopeless, that even 
if the high gods were to give him the power 
to realise any one wish, however wild, it did not 



LIFE AND DEATH 


179 


Seem that tie could be much the better for that. 
He could not wish that the wife of his friend should 
be in love with him — he could not wish that his 
friend was dead — nor could he even wish the past 
all blotted out. Oh, no, no — not that — anything 
but that ! He could not face the future without 
the memory of Mary Caledon. The mere thought 
of her friendship was something to live for. 

One special source of satisfaction he found amid 
all his troubles in the conviction that he had 
played well his Spartan boy part, and that Mary 
CaleJon knew nothing of what was gnawing at 
his heart. He felt a little proud of himself for 
having been able to accomplish that feat; but it 
was as well, he thought, that he had not to play 
the part many times more in the near future. He 
was profoundly disappointed and humiliated by the 
break-down of his grand scheme for making the 
Caledons happy. He had not made them happy ; 
and he had made himself very unhappy. He had 
seen with his own eyes that poor Laurence was 
deteriorating in character and temper day after 
day. Mary was right; he had better break off 
and go away, if only for that reason, and that, 
alas ! was not his only or his chiefest reason. He 
felt his heart torn with pity for his old friend, whom 
he had striven so much to help so hopefully at the 

M 2 


180 


ROLAND OLIVER 


beginning. How well it bad all begun, and bow 
badly it bad turned out ! Well, it would be some- 
thing if be could still, from a distance, be allowed 
to give them a helping band. Mary would always 
feel kindly to him ; and perhaps some time be 
should come back again, and find them prosperous 
and happy, and they should all be friends and 
comrades once more. 

But not soon, not for a long time. He was 
determined in bis own mind that be would stay 
away from London until the wound in bis heart 
should be nearly healed. He thought of taking up 
African exploration ; he thought of going to India, 
and finding something to do there; or going on 
through China and Japan to Australia, and settling 
there ; or to the United States, and trying what 
active life was like there. Anyhow, he would bear 
in mind Mary's injunction, he would not lead an 
idle existence any more, he would not live in 
vain. 

He did not know how long he had been wander- 
ing thus, up and down the Embankment — up and 
down — until he became conscious that the place 
was growing silent. Soon he heard the solemn 
tones of Big Ben clang out with proclamation of 
midnight. Near Waterloo Bridge he turned on 
hearing the sound, and he looked up at the Clock 


LIFE AND DEATH 


181 


Tower with its plume of fire. All along the benches 
of the Embankment, and in some places along the 
stone pavement itself, were creatures huddled up for 
their night’s sleep — creatures who, it must be sup- 
posed, had no other bed-chamber accommodation. 

“ I wonder if the legislators perchance are legis- 
lating about that,” Roland asked himself, stirred 
for a moment out of his own personal troubles. 
“ I wonder do they ever think about that? This 
is a great country, we are always telling ourselves. 
Is it a great country, with that sort of thing going 
on in every city and town in the land ? And that 
is nothing, oh, nothing at all compared with 
what one might see every night for the looking in 
other quarters of London, in some parts of every 
great town.” 

He thought of finding some one of the outcasts 
who was not asleep, and trying to talk with him, 
and find out what his own individual trouble was, 
and whether he had any ideas to contribute as to 
the causes and the meaning of the more general 
trouble. While he was looking about for an 
opportunity, a man got up from one of the benches 
and began to move or stagger slowly, undecidedly, 
eastward — towards Blackfriars Bridge. He was 
only some yards ahead of Roland when he started, 
and Roland would soon have caught up with him, 


182 


BOLAND OLIVER 


but that, on coming* nearer, be fancied, by tbe 
unsteady, swaying movement, that tbe man was 
drunk. So Roland slackened bis pace and looked 
after the staggerer. Somehow, it did not seem 
quite like drunkenness ; it was more like weakness 
or sickness. The night was soft and warm ; the 
moon was covered by clouds ; the river was full and 
swift and was rushing by the Embankment, almost, 
one might have fancied, within touch of the way- 
farer’s hand. “What a temptation to suicide — 
such a full, flowing tide, so easily reached ! No 
desperate, headlong plunge — no deep, dreadful fall 
— only to lay one’s self on the river and be carried 
away to death ! ” This was what Roland was 
thinking — not about himself ; he had far too robust 
and unselfish a nature to dream of escape by death’s 
portal so long as he could be of use on earth to 
any one or anything. But those unfortunates on 
the benches and the pavement, this swaying, 
staggering creature yonder — drunk or sober, it 
matters not — what a temptation just now to them, 
to jiim, to seek a refuge from their hopeless 
earthly life in that near and swift-flowing river ! 

Roland had allowed the swaying man to get 
well ahead of him, and, perhaps, would have turned 
the other way, but for a sharp cry of despair — for 
so it sounded — which came suddenly to his ears. 


LIFE AND DEATH 


183 


It came from the man he had been following, and 
who now suddenly stood still and sent out that one 
unearthly cry. It was not the scream of pain or 
the yell of anger, but only the heightened and 
protracted groan which proclaims that all is given 
up, that all is over. Then, before Roland had time 
to rush at him and grip him, the unfortunate man 
scrambled over the low wall and tumbled himself 
into the river. 

Roland ran to the side and looked over just as 
the splash of the water proclaimed that it had 
received the victim. He glanced for half a second 
up the Embankment, and down ; there was no help 
near at hand. The sleeping wretches on the 
benches were apparently sleeping still. They 
would not have heeded the cry, and the river being 
so high up the bank the splash would not have 
made much sound. Besides, it was not likely that 
any of them could be of the slightest use in any 
case. Roland was waiting to see where the man in 
the stream would rise to the surface. Nothing was 
to be done until then. He held his breath » 
minutes appeared to go by instead of seconds. He 
had noticed that the man was of slender build ; he 
must be very light of weight, and Roland felt little 
doubt that, with proper care, he could keep him up 
until help should come. 


184 


BOLAND OLIVER 


Roland was a strong, a practised, and a skilful 
swimmer. He had always loved the exercise ; it 
had been his favourite craft, and he had been 
trained in many rivers, and got the best experiences 
of many sea-coasts, and he had saved life more than 
once, under conditions ever so much more hard and 
perilous than were around his venture this soft, 
summer night, in the middle of London. So he 
waited for the right moment, fearless, and confident. 
The tide was running to the sea; and of course 
Roland had rushed at once to a position below the 
spot, from which the man had flung himself in. 
There ! see ! He comes up. A face, and head, and 
shoulders are positively shot up out of the water. 
A pale, ghastly face, with eyes that blink wildly out 
of the river-drops showered down upon them from 
the drenching hair, a mouth that strives to open 
and cry out, but is instantly filled, and gagged, and 
choked by the futile splashing of the clutching 
hands ; and Roland, recognising the face of 
Laurence Caledon, lets himself drop softly into 
the water. Softly — as softly as ever he can — he 
descends, so that he may not splash too much his 
struggling friend ; and just as Laurence is about 
to sink beneath the surface again, Roland has him 
firmly gripped by the hair. Things seem so safe 


LIFE AND DEATH 


185 


that Roland is almost cheery. “ Aha, would you — 
would you ? ” he says. “ Oh, but you don’t, though.” 

Laurence opens his eyes, andj recognising him, 
gurgles out: “Oh, Roland, Roland, save me, 
save me,” and he tries to clutch at and cling round 
the man who would rescue him. 

“ All right,” Roland calls out in encouraging 
tones, although Laurence drags him for half a 
moment down under the water, and the cooling 
Thames gets into his mouth. “ Don’t cling to me, 
Laurence, and I’ll save you — but — ” another drag 
down — “if you cling to me — you’ll — drown us — 
both.” Then Roland shut up, resolutely acknow- 
ledging the fact that, as revolutionary orators some- 
times say, “ the time for talking is past — the time 
for action is come.” Roland’s idea of action 
now was to put a hand under the back of Laurence’s 
head, holding the head firmly, and keeping the face 
upturned and out of the river, while he swam gently 
with the other hand, or merely trod water, and 
peered about him to see whether help was near. 
This would be plain sailing, easy work, if Laurence 
would only let himself float and submit to be towed 
along. 

The weather was so warm and soft, that even 
at midnight the water was not very cold, and 


186 


ROLAND OLIVER 


Roland felt sure that long before the chill of the 
river could have much effect upon either of them, 
rescue would have come in some way. At first, 
indeed, he was taking the whole situation rather too 
easily, not seeing much real danger in it, and only 
conscious of a vague, wild wonder and gladness that 
he should have been upon the spot just in time. 
He was too actively engaged in the present, 
however, to be able to go back even so short a 
distance into the past as to wonder why Laurence 
should have flung himself into the Thames. 

Did Roland cry out for help? Indeed he did 
not. He was up to his business too much ; he 
knew a trick worth two of that. He had no idea 
of idly wasting his breath — that limited stock of 
breath which is the imperilled swimmer’s main 
treasure — he had no idea of tearing his lungs with 
a vague shout addressed to the general public of 
London. The moment he comes within hail of a 
ship, or a moored steamer, or a barge, or a pier, or 
a bridge, it is his resolve to make the welkin 
ring ; but he certainly would not waste a shout ; 
only one who has been in such straits knows the 
physical cost of a shout. Why, for one thing, it 
plumps you down under the water the moment you 
have got it out of your lungs, and Roland could 
not risk many plumps into the water, considering 


LIFE AND DEATH 


187 


the burthen ho was hearing. His first idea was to 
make for one of the iron rings that hang at inter- 
vals along tho quay-sides of the Embankment, and 
hold on securely there until help came. And now 
he saw one clearly a few feet ahead of him, and ho 
and his burthen wore only a fow feet from the 
quay. Lifting Laurence's head a littlo more — 
Laurence so far had been doing wonderfully well — 
he struck out a strong, bold stroke, and mado for 
the iron ring. But Laurence suddenly gave a wild 
scream and clutched at Roland, and clung to him, 
and they both went down below the surface, and 
the river raced with them far beyond the point 
for which Roland had made. Just then the 
river took a sudden bend, and there was the rush 
of a current sweeping downward and out ; and, 
when Roland next lifted his head above the water, 
he saw, the moment he could shake the drops 
from his eyes, that they were in mid-stream. He 
lifted Laurence's face above the water again, and 
tried to shake himself free of the affrighted 
creature’s arms and legs. He cried into Laurence’s 
ear that if he would let go they would be perfectly 
safe ; that if he would not let go they must both 
be drowned. In vain ! Laurence had no ears or 
senses now. He screamed when he could get 
his mouth free of water; he clung to Roland; he 


188 


ROLAND OLIVER 


cried out : t( Oh, Roland ! sa’, sa’ ! ” which was 
the best attempt he could make at “ Oh, Roland ! 
save me ! save me ! ” He grappled with Roland 
meantime, fought fiercely with him, and was no 
more to be shaken off than Victor Hugo’s octopus. 
Probably when he lay so impassive and quiet, on 
Roland’s first seizing him, he had become, for 
the moment, quite unconscious. But now he had 
his senses just enough to let loose the passion 
of fear ; not enough to control it. 

Roland tried hard to keep his wits about him 
and to take things coolly ; but he felt that the 
business was getting very serious ; his strength 
must give out in a few moments or seconds more; 
the end must come soon. He felt his arms relaxing 
as Laurence’s desperate clutch grew tighter and 
fiercer; there seemed nothing for them but to go 
down together; and just in that moment came 
up in his reeling brain the thought that life had 
been very sweet to him. 

But he recalled all his wandering energies in 
a moment, for he saw some great, dark object bear- 
ing down upon them. Then at last he summoned 
up all his strength of lungs and voice, “ and from 
his lips there burst a mighty cry.” But the barge 
— for a barge it was — dropping rapidly down with 
the stream, pushed at them heavily, rather than 


LIFE AND DEATH 


189 


struck them, with one of her sides, and Roland 
felt as if they were being sucked down into some 
vague, cavernous depths of dripping darkness; 
and then, somehow, the whole story seemed to 
come to an end for him. 

The men in the barge had them out of the 
river in a moment, and had their dripping clothes 
off, and rolled them in blankets and rough coats. 
Roland was, to all appearance, the greater sufferer 
of the two, for he had been badly hurt by the 
barge on the head and shoulder. But Roland 
was strong and full of life, and by early morning 
he was on his feet again, and ready for anything. 
Indeed, the moment he became conscious — he had 
lain for some hours absolutely unconssious — he 
was ready for anything. The first question he 
asked was about his friend. Well, the news was 
bad ; the poor gentleman was very weak and 
exhausted, and seemed not quite conscious like. 
He kept asking for his wife to be sent for, and 
saying he had killed his best friend. So they 
moored the barge, and got in a doctor; and the 
doctor was very kind, and had him took to a 
hospital ; and very like he would get better there 


soon. 


CHAPTER XTI. 


LATER ON. 

AURENCE did get better — much better 
— very soon ; for he died. 

Roland never again saw him alive. 
There had just been time to send for Mary Caledon 
when Laurence recovered his senses enough to be 
able to give her name and address. She was with 
him at the end. He left with her a sweeter, tenderer 
memory of him than she might perhaps have 
ventured to hope for. He became more like what 
he was in their early married days before he had 
yielded to temptation and been soured by deserved 
disgrace, and made egotistic by ill-health, and bitter 
and anxious by poverty. He left a message with 
her for Roland — if Roland should be living — and 
he told her that if Roland was dead he had died in 
trying to save the life of an ungrateful and worth- 
less friend, 



LATER OJV 


191 


“Oh, no, no,” Mary sobbed as she bent over 
him. “Not worthless ever, and not ungrateful 
now.” She broke down in tears. 

“ Thank you, Mary,” the dying man said. “I 
think you are right — not worthless and ungrateful 
— any more.” 

Mary never went back to the house in Agar 
Street. Roland came to her in the hospital where 
her husband’s corpse was still lying, and he took 
charge of everything for her. And the physician 
of the hospital found a quiet lodging for her near 
Regent’s Park. There she will try to add a little 
to her little income by writing; her needs would 
not be great. It seems almost superfluous to say 
that Roland did not offer to give her any help in 
the way of money. But he had all the Agar Street 
things sold off for her, and that gave her a little 
sum to start with. 

He did not ask her why Laurence had tried 
to drown himself, and she did not tell him then. 
She gave him so much of Laurence’s message as 
was expressive of Laurence’s gratitude; but the 
rest she kept to herself — for the time. Only for 
the time, however. She will think it right to tell 
him all — later on, 


192 


BOLAND OLIVER 


Later on ! Many things may happen later on, 
of which there is no speech or even thought with 
these two just now. Roland will go abroad — that 
seems to him best ; but he will return — later on. 



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¥ act in harmony with the laws that govern the 
WMn&i : -'/ViO female svstem. ” For the cure of Kidney Complaints 
w m&C-j!hZS of eittie f gex> this Compound is unsurpassed. 

Uvdia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound is prepared at Lynn, Mass. Price, $1.00. 
Six bottles for $5.00. Sent bv mail in the form of Pills, also in the form of Lozenges, on receipt 
of price, $1.00 per box, for either. Send for pamphlet. All letters of inquiry promptly an- 
swered. Address as above. 



As there is no SIMPLE TEST by which adulterated 
soaps can be detected, the SAFE COURSE is to purchase 
only those soaps which bear the name of a long-established 
and reliable house. SINCE 1806 Colgate & Co. have made 
only the best of articles ; as a result, their toilet soaps and 
perfumes are sold in ALL PARTS OF THE CIVILIZED 
WORLD, and are everywhere acknowledged to be the 
STANDARD for purity and excellence. The toilet soap and 
handkerchief perfume held in highest esteem by the American 
public is CASHMERE BOUQUET , and over 30 first awards 
testify that they are “unequaled in quality and perfume.”. 




















